


The Uses of Adversity

by Fire_Sign



Series: This Strange Eventful History [4]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9282800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Sweet are the uses of adversity,Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;And this our life, exempt from public haunt,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.―William Shakespeare As You Like It---------------When the newly widowed Margaret Fisher joins her daughter in Melbourne, sparks were practically guaranteed. But when a friend of Margaret's is murdered, Jack and Phryne weren't expecting their fledgling relationship to be tested with a trip to South Gippsland under the pseudonyms of Mr. and Mrs. Rogers.The (very, very overdue) sequel toStrange Capers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I meant to have this done by the beginning of October. I did not. Or November. December was a complete write-off. But it's done now? Updates should be Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday.
> 
> This is the sequel to Strange Capers, aka the shark arm fic. As a quick refresher: Phryne spent two years in England for financial reasons, slowly losing contact with Jack. Upon returning to Melbourne she stumbled upon a case before she could even tell him she was home, and their investigations into the death of a police informant led Phryne to believe that Jack was covering for a corrupt police officer, or worse. Our dear DI was hiding some secrets, but not quite as dire as all that. By the end of the story, they were ready to take their nightcaps to the boudoir and see where it led.

Jack knocked on the door to Wardlow, surprised when it was answered by Phryne herself, resplendent in a gown of aqua silk and a matching comb in her hair.

“Jack!” she exhaled, smiling.

“Mr. Butler?” he asked, glancing through the door in search of the man.

“Managing my mother, who has been ‘recovering’ from the travel since she arrived this morning. I do not pay him nearly enough.”

“Ahh,” said Jack, stepping through the door into the dimly-lit hallway. “And the other attendees of tonight’s little dinner soirée?”

Phryne reached up to pluck the hat from his head, turning to hang it upon the peg and then turning again to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him softly.

“Either sufficiently distracted or not yet arrived,” she promised, and he placed his arms against the small of her back, stroking the bared skin there. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“I almost didn’t,” he admitted. “We had a suspicious death this afternoon.”

“Murder?” she asked, sounding almost hopeful. Melbourne’s criminals had been surprisingly reserved since their last case, and they’d had little reason to work together.

“Bizarre accident, in the end.”

She huffed slightly, then smiled again.

“You’re here, at least. Is Will coming?”

Jack pressed his lips together, debating how much to tell her; his goddaughter was a difficult subject at the best of times, and though Phryne knew most of it, there were confidences he did not wish to break.

“He’s out of town for a few days,” he finally settled on. “Fishing. It was Pol’s birthday yesterday.” 

“Ahh, I hadn’t realised. I wouldn’t have invited him…”

“He appreciated it, Phryne. He just couldn’t face…”

“My mother?”

“People.”

“Understandable,” Phryne said, kissing him again. “Are you…”

“I’m fine,” Jack assured her, thumb still grazing her back. Her skin was so smooth, and it had been nearly a week since they’d been together. He dropped his head to her neck to breathe in her perfume. “Though I must admit that _I’m_ cowed by the idea of facing your mother.” 

She laughed, tossing her head back slightly. Jack took the opportunity to kiss her throat, feeling her sigh.

A cough.

Jack jumped back, quite literally, his hands dropping from Phryne’s waist.

“Are you going to introduce me?” came a dry voice; looking up, Jack saw a woman who could only be Margaret Fisher standing in the doorway to the dining room. 

He tried, out of policeman’s habit, to gather his first impression of the woman. Unfortunately, abject humiliation rather dulled his powers of observation.

Miss Fisher felt no such embarrassment, of course. 

“Hello, Mother!” she said brightly. “Are you done supervising the dinner menu?”

“You really do give your servants far too much input, my dear,” Margaret said dismissively. “Now who _is_ this paramour of yours?”

“Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, this is my mother, Margaret. Mother, this is Jack. He’s a colleague and good friend.”

“Lady Fisher,” Jack managed to choke out in greeting. His brain kicked in to catalogue the essentials—slightly shorter than her daughter, chestnut hair streaked with grey, her squared jaw and deep-set eyes giving the slightest impression of jowls, but still undeniably attractive in her regalness.

“A detective inspector?” Margaret asked. “How _intriguing._ You aren’t the one Prudence mentioned, by any chance?”

“Mrs. Stanley and I have had interactions in the past, but I couldn’t say,” he said stiffly.

Margaret’s pleased expression fell, and she turned to her daughter with an almost petulant look.

“Really, Phryne, if you must settle down you ought to choose a man with… _je ne sais quoi_. Excitement. Vigour.” 

“An inclination to fawn over your every word?” Phryne finished coolly. “Honestly, Mother. I have no intention of settling down. Jack and I are friends—”

“Yes, I too greet all my friends in that manner.”

“Mother! I am not discussing my…”

Phryne actually seemed at a loss for words for once.

“Romantic liaisons?” Jack supplied helpfully, trying not to laugh. This was humiliating, but he could either find the humour in it or actually die from embarrassment, and quite frankly he was looking forward to Mr. Butler’s dinner far too much to do the latter.

Phryne turned to him and batted her eyelashes playfully, tilting her head.

“Is _that_ what this is? Here I thought we were simply saying hello.”

“Of course, Miss Fisher. If that’s how the Europeans are doing things these days, we Antipodeans will have to join them sooner or later. Has Doctor MacMillan arrived yet? I feel I should put this theory to practice—”

“You wouldn’t!” Phryne laughed. “You’d give her an apoplexy, and frighten off her new house guest before I ever got to meet her.”

“Ahh, that is a problem,” Jack said soberly, looking towards Margaret. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Fisher? Because I would hate to cause the good doctor grief, and yet I feel compelled to try my hand at this new form of greeting…”

Phryne stepped dangerously close, her body swaying enticingly, and looked at his lips. All teasing words fled his mind, replaced with the urge to kiss her. In front of her mother. After being introduced as a friend. 

If there was hell on earth, he was pretty sure it was populated by Phryne Fisher’s family. 

Before he could decide what to do, there was a knock on the door and the moment was gone. But Phryne squeezed his hand gently as she passed, a promise to continue later.

“Mac!” Phryne said as the door swung open. The two women hugged, and then Phryne turned to the other guest, an attractive brunette in a pantsuit with more feminine details than Mac generally preferred. “And you must be Frankie! Come in, come in. Mr. B has cocktails in the parlour. Come meet the rest of the guests. That’s my mother, Margaret, and this is Jack. Everyone, this is Dr. Franklin, a colleague of Mac’s.” 

Jack nodded at the new woman, and she nodded in return.

“Frankie is absolutely fine,” she said, giving a reserved smile. 

Phryne leant in towards the brunette and dropped her voice, casting a mischievous look towards Jack. “Don’t let Mac scare you off—Jack only bites if you ask him.”

The new woman laughed, and Mac rolled her eyes in Jack’s direction. Jack smiled back. Undaunted, Phryne hooked an arm around both women, and Jack and Margaret followed them into the parlour. 

———

“He’s not what I expected.”

Phryne took a large sip of something fruity and potent. The first course hadn’t even been served and she was already ready to drive an ice pick through her ear drum just to escape her mother’s commentary. Although, knowing Margaret, she’d just descend into gesticulating wildly. All she needed was an audience, not a willing participant.

“You didn’t know he existed until this evening, Mother. And it’s not…”

Phryne took another sip of her drink, watching Jack from across the room. He was in discussion with Mac and Frankie, who was a medical researcher recently arrived from Perth to take a position at the university, listening quietly until he had something insightful to add. There was something pleasant in simply watching him, in being free to watch him.

“Not serious?” her mother prompted, and Phryne shook her contemplations off.

“It’s new,” Phryne said; the intensity with which she wanted to guard what was between them took her aback at times. “And most definitely not serious.”

“Give me some credit, girl,” her mother scoffed. “He’s clearly devoted to you—”

“Mother.”

“—I mean, at _first_ I thought he seemed terribly dull, all dour and fumbling, but he does have something resembling a sense of humour that matches yours, and when you two looked at each other—”

“I think I’ll see if Jane has arrived from school,” Phryne said through gritted teeth.

As if summoned, the girl—young woman, really, at seventeen and a year away from university—came into the room. She spotted Jack before Phryne, walking over to say hello then turning to survey the room for her guardian. When she saw Phryne she raised a hand in greeting, said something else to Jack that made him smile slightly, then crossed the room.

“It’s so casual a… what did he call it? A romantic liaison, that’s it—that he’s at ease with half your guest list,” Margaret observed before Jane arrived.

“Not now, Mother.”

“Miss Phryne!”

Phryne hugged Jane tightly; the girl now towered over Phryne herself, her hair in a bob that made her age even more obvious. Phryne was once again struck by how much she had missed her—letters just weren’t the same. 

“Hello, Jane darling. This is my mother, Margaret. Mother, this is my ward, Jane Ross.”

Jane smiled and began to speak with Margaret; when Phryne was certain they were settled, she made her excuses. Several more guests had arrived—friends of her mother’s rather than her own—and she made the rounds greeting them all. Eventually she had circled far enough in the room she came to Jack, Mac and Frankie, still deep in conversation. Jack shifted aside to give her room without even glancing in her direction, so aware of her presence that he accommodated her without thought.

In the month since she’d returned to Melbourne, they had found… something. Tentative offerings of space and consideration and trips to Luna Park and dancing and… oh, it had been marvelous. So marvelous, really, that she was certain it would go wrong sooner rather than later, never quite trusting that the transition could be so easy in the end. 

It occurred to her that only they would define a massive cocaine ring take-down as _easy_.

The mutual decision to take things slowly had helped, giving them an opportunity to breathe when the intensity threatened to overwhelm; there were nights when she could feel it stretched between them, when they retired upstairs and all she wanted was the dim light of her boudoir and the darkness of his eyes and the way she felt his name reverberating in her chest, when she thought it would be so easy to succumb to the waves and drown beneath the weight of him and what they had almost lost, never to emerge.

She was no Hero, though, and she had no intention of permitting death for any reason. She caught Jack’s elbow, pulled him near so that her lips brushed against the shell of his ear.

“ _Thou shalt not wander hence to-night_ ,” she murmured, suddenly desiring nothing more than his company even with her mother’s presence.

He gave an inquisitive hum, and Phryne smiled wickedly as she continued the quote.

“ _I’ll stay thee with my kisses_.”

“You’ll find I’m far easier to convince than a Leander,” he agreed quietly. “And far less likely to drown.”

“If you two are finished,” Mac said dryly, “we _were_ in the middle of a conversation.”

Phryne turned a blinding smile on her friend. “Yes, which was _riveting_. Tell me, Frankie, did you _expect_ to get roped into a work discussion this evening or was it an unpleasant surprise?”

“I’m afraid I’m the one that started them off,” the woman confessed, her eyes sparkling when she glanced at Mac. An interesting development.

“Well, as long as you’re satisfied. I won’t have my hospitality impugned by the presence of these two,” teased Phryne, kissing Jack’s cheek. He was especially intoxicating tonight. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other guests to greet.”

Then she was gone again, thrilled to once more to be the true hostess and not merely one in her parents’ home.

Aunt Prudence had arrived while she was speaking, and had taken over Margaret’s entertainment. Good. Perhaps she could convince her mother that the sisterly bond would be strengthened by staying at Rippon Lea instead of Wardlow, leaving Phryne free in her only recently reclaimed house. She loved her mother, but it was the sort of love that flourished best with distance.

Jane was by the piano, looking slightly lost. Phryne headed towards her, and the girl smiled.

“Hello, Miss Phryne.”

“Are you well, Jane?”

“Perfectly,” she replied, then hesitated. “Miss, is your mother always so…?”

“Jejune?” Phryne guessed, and Jane looked relieved.

“It’s just… She was asking me about you and the inspector. Whether you were going to get married, how long you’ve known each other. She seems to find the whole thing terribly romantic. It was odd.”

“I’m sorry, darling. My mother has some _very_ odd notions about—well, everything really. You shouldn’t have been caught up in that.”

Jane flashed her a mischievous smile. “I didn’t mind, really. I told her you were having all sorts of sinful and debauched evenings and have no intention of anything more. The inspector cuts a fine figure in a suit—and out, I implied—but is otherwise dull as dishwater.”

“Don’t let Jack hear you say it,” laughed Phryne.

“It was his idea, actually. Even gave me permission to tell her about the time he arrested you if it helped the illusion.”

Phryne cast a quick glance towards Jack, noticing that he was watching her. He raised his glass in her direction with a surreptitious smile, and Phryne found herself smiling back.

At that moment, Mr. Butler arrived at the parlour doors, and indicated that the meal was ready.

Phryne gave a small cough to clear her throat.

“If we could all retire to the dining room,” she declared to assembled guests, “dinner is served.”

———

Dinner was going reasonably well. Phryne knew her mother thrived on being the centre of attention, and she’d catered the guest list to the most sycophantic of her mother’s acquaintances and the few in her own family that would appreciate the absurdity. The only real variable was Frankie, but she and Jack were sat next to each other halfway down the table and seemed to have gotten into a discussion about natural vegetation in the area—the discussion had at one point turned towards mothers, Frankie had mentioned her mother was a botanist, and off they’d gone.

All along the table similar conversations were going on; a less formal affair than Phryne had anticipated, but pleasantly so.

“Oh, did I mention, Prudence?” Margaret said as the Beef Wellington was laid before them, loud enough that the entire table turned their attentions to her. Which was, no doubt, her intention. “I had a message from Celia Arden.”

“Celia?” muttered one of the guests, a man with a mustache that made him resemble a walrus. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in years.”

Several others voiced their agreement, and Aunt Prudence looked positively gleeful.

“And what is the dear up to?” she asked, her tone underscoring what she actually thought of the woman.

“She’s on about the Tullaree treasure again.”

Several guests scoffed and turned back to their meals, but the rest seemed even more eager and lobbed questions towards Margaret. Phryne suspected her mother was making up the answers as she went—she caught Mac’s eye when her mother contradicted herself again and found the same disbelief in her friend’s expression—and tuned much of it out; she’d heard most of it before anyway, when she was child. The Ardens had been new money, and Celia had attended school with her mother; the two had been close friends. The family lost much of their money in the crash of 1892, and what little was left was consumed by Celia’s subsequent imprudent spending, including a grand homestead in South Gippsland that was rumoured to have treasure buried on the land. It was a child’s tale, something Margaret had told her and Janey on the nights the hunger in their bellies was too much to bear. It was a relief when the topic changed once more. 

By the time the final course was served—a lemon mousse that had Phryne salivating—she had almost forgotten the discussion. Margaret had turned her attentions to Jack, asking pointed questions in what was a clear attempt to determine his suitability; to Phryne’s surprise, Aunt P took an affront to the whole thing and defended Jack at every turn. Poor Jack just seemed to gawp as the sisters exchanged veiled barbs.

Phryne, for her part, sat back and enjoyed the show.

“Excuse me, miss,” Mr. Butler said quietly into her ear; she hadn’t even noted his arrival. “There is a telephone call for Lady Fisher. The gentleman insists that it is a matter of importance.”

Phryne nodded subtly, wiping her mouth with her napkin, and excused herself and Margaret from the table. Jack tilted his head in question and she shook hers in response, an exchange that nobody else seemed to notice.

Once in the hallway, Margaret perched on the telephone chair, ready to hold court.

“Lady Fisher speaking,” she began. “Yes, I know her.”

Silence and her smile both fell.

“Are you quite certain?”

Her hand began to fidget with the pen and paper left on the telephone table for taking messages.

“Yes, I understand.And you’re… yes, of course.”

Margaret wrote something down on the paper, asking for a few details. Not enough for Phryne to draw any conclusions, but her mother’s bright spirits were subdued. Eventually she thanked the caller for contacting her and said goodbye. She hung up the telephone, then looked to Phryne.

“Mother?”

Margaret began to cry, loud, harsh sobs that had Phryne crossing the foyer to wrap her arms around her mother in comfort.

“Mother, what is it?”

“It’s Celia!” Margaret wailed, looking up at her. “She’s been murdered.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! In an effort to get the first chapter up on an impulse, I forgot to make author's notes. I shall try to be brief. This fic is [based on a real case](https://www.reddit.com/r/UnresolvedMysteries/comments/49vilv/the_lady_of_the_swamp_who_murdered_margaret/), though I have (by necessity) changed many of the specifics. The original case is fascinating though, if you are interested in true crime. This fic is also an homage to a... particular mystery show, and I can't wait to see if anybody picks it up. ;-D Thirdly, you are all awesome andI hope you enjoy this one!

Jack had noticed Phryne and her mother leave the table, though Phryne had been quick to reassure him it was fine. So he turned back to his mousse and his conversation with Dr. Franklin—“Frankie, please,” she had insisted, and Mac had laughed and wished her luck on _that_ ambition—and was quite happily distracted when a loud wailing started in the hall and all the guests paused. Jack shot a look at Mac, who shook her head and took another bite, and Jack followed suit. At least until the noise grew louder and even through the closed door they heard Margaret’s exclamation.

“It’s Celia! She’s been murdered.”

Jack wiped his mouth on his napkin and sighed as he stood and headed towards the door.

“Like mother, like daughter,” he muttered as he reached Mac, who chuckled quietly.

He glanced at the table then back to her, silently asking her to keep the rest of the guests occupied; they both knew Phryne would hate for there to be witnesses to whatever was going on. Mac nodded—really, with Mrs. Stanley around it would not take much—and he strode from the room.

Phryne stood by the telephone with her mother sobbing against her stomach, one hand stroking her mother’s hair and the other hanging loosely. She spotted him, and the relief on her face made him want to draw her close, comfort her with the same surety she comforted her mother. A needless impulse, quickly squashed; if she desired his comfort, she would seek it out. Until then, he could be what he had always been, or tried to be. He tilted his head slightly, as if to say ‘I’m here’, and she smiled in relief once more before returning her attention to her distraught mother.

“Mother, what do you mean murdered?” Phryne asked, a tenderness on her features that surprised Jack; after a moment, he realised why—it was a look he had seen her use towards Jane, and seemed so incongruous coming from a daughter.

Margaret Fisher pulled away, fluttering her hands wildly.

“Murdered! In her bed!”

“Where? _When_?”

“I don’t know!”

Phryne looked up to Jack once more, utterly helpless in the face of her mother’s frantic tears. Thankful that he tended to carry a notebook in his pocket even when off-duty, he extracted it and a pen and set his features into professional firmness.

“Lady Fisher?” he asked, and the woman wailed louder.

It was going to be a long night.

Mr. Butler appeared with a tray of tea and three cups—if Phryne ever felt the need to release the man from her services, Jack would happily spend his own not-inconsiderable savings to hire him—and continued through to the parlour where they would have some privacy. Phryne ushered her mother towards the room, stopping as she drew level with Jack.

“If it was in Victoria, any death notification is going to cross my desk,” Jack said quietly. “If your mother was right about where she lives, the body won’t come to Melbourne for autopsy, but I can make inquiries.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

He reached out to stroke his fingers against her elbow, giving her a small, reassuring smile.

“Do you want to settle your guests and rejoin me in a moment?”

“Do you really want to deal with my mother alone?” she retorted, but there was no bite in it.

“It’s part of the job,” he shrugged insolently, just to see her smile. “I’m not asking you to stay out of this, just that it might be prudent to empty the house before commencing.”

“You won’t get a bit of sense out of my mother until I’m back,” Phryne warned.

“Most likely. I can’t imagine your mother is anything other than stubborn. Unfortunately, a policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”

There was a melancholy twinge to her returning smile, and he sighed.

“I’m not being glib—”

“No, that’s usually my job.”

Jack chuckled, and allowed himself the freedom of tucking her hair behind her ear and stroking her cheek; her eyes fluttered shut at the touch. From what he had gathered, the relationship between mother and daughter was complicated, and Jack doubted this was quite the murder investigation she had been hoping to find. Not that either of them had been _hoping_ for a murder. And it wasn’t an _investigation_ , just a few questions.

“You will find, Miss Fisher, that I am in need of your assistance,” he said, knowing she would read between the lines— _we’re in this together_.

She caught his fingers in hers and squeezed, opening her eyes to smile brightly.

“You don’t think I’d let you investigate without me?” she teased.

———

Phryne returned to the dining room, where Mr. Butler was removing the dishes. She clinked on a glass to draw the attention of the guests.

“I am very sorry, but due to a sudden bereavement, I’m afraid we will have to forego after-dinner cocktails and socialising,” she said formally. “Mr. Butler will assist you all with your needs, if you will please excuse me.”

Mac and Aunt Prudence both made to stand up, and Phryne gave a tiny shake of her head to tell them to stay for now. Then she returned to the parlour, shutting the door behind her. Her mother was on the chaise and Jack in an arm chair, leaning forward and talking to her quietly.

“And do you have Miss Arden’s address?” he was asking, his face inviting confidences; under other circumstances, her mother would probably eat him for breakfast.

“Uh, yes,” she said weakly. “We wrote quite a bit—when Henry and I… she was a true friend. Stuck with me through our tough days and never asked for money when we inherited. I can get it for you?”

Jack nodded. “Please do, Lady Fisher.”

Her mother stood, jumping a little when she saw Phryne and wailing again.

“It’s dreadful, darling! Murdered!” she cried, suddenly inconsolable once more.

“Please go fetch the address for Inspector Robinson,” Phryne said, gritting her teeth. “And Aunt Prudence will want to speak with you.”

Margaret swept from the room, still caterwauling, and Phryne slumped into the armchair beside Jack.

“Did you get anything from her?” she asked, rubbing her forehead.

“Enough,” said Jack. “A lot about a treasure—”

“The Tullaree Treasure,” Phryne said. “It was supposedly buried on the land back, oh seventy or eighty years ago. The nature of the treasure, the location, what it was buried in… the story changes with every telling.”

Jack consulted his notes and smiled wryly.

“I had three different versions from a five minute conversation with your mother.”

“Did she give you _much_ grief?”

“No, not at all. I think she was saving the majority of her histrionics for you.”

Phryne winced. “She wasn’t subtle about it, was she?”

Jack pressed his lips together. “Not particularly, no. But people like your mother do tend to comply with authority.”

Phryne snorted. “As opposed to people like me? You’re lucky my mother didn’t either proposition you or act like we were engaged, to be honest.”

Coughing, Jack blushed. “She did seem…”

“Excessive?” Phryne suggested. “I should have warned you, Jack. My mother is very used to being able to manipulate a situation. She means well, she does, but she discovered as a child that with the right amount of charm she could get out of anything. She and my father were very well-suited in that regard.”

“Not that your father was particularly charming,” Jack said.

“Most people disagreed. Still,” she said, sloughing off the melancholy, “that’s neither here nor there. What else did my mother say?”

“She and Celia apparently wrote regularly. I get the impression that the Arden fortune is not what it once was?”

“No,” Phryne confirmed. “Mother and Celia got along because Celia was burning through the last of the money when my mother was young and poor. I do think they were sincere friends though.”

“Your mother said that she was supposed to visit Celia next week?”

Phryne huffed and rolled her eyes. “She hadn’t said a word to me, which means she hadn’t actually made arrangements and expected me to drop everything and drive her, but I don’t doubt it.”

“So my follow-up of ‘Do you know if there was any particular reason for the visit?’ is not going to illuminate matters?”

“Not at all.”

There was a knock on the parlour door, then Margaret re-entered.

“Here you are, inspector,” she said, handing him an envelope. Her face was swollen from tears, but her voice was level. “I need to say goodbye to Prudence, but I’ll rejoin you shortly.”

“No need,” Jack said. “This is not an official investigation, and any other questions can wait until the morning. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

The modicum of sympathy was enough to set Margaret wailing again, and Phryne grit her teeth. She could never quite tell what was her mother’s understandably weak nerves and what was a deliberate ploy. She stood, following her mother out of the room. Mac was still in the hall as well—with Frankie, and what an introduction _this_ had proven to be—and Phryne jerked her head towards the front door. Mac joined her there.

“Mother is a mess,” she said quietly. “Do you…”

Mac nodded. “In the car. I’ll get your mother into bed and give her a mild sedative for the evening. Is it really murder?”

“We won’t know until a report comes through. Mother didn’t mention a cause of death, and you know how she can be.”

“And you’re alright?”

“Fine. The death notice will pass Jack’s desk in the morning, and there’s nothing to be done before then. Will you apologise to Frankie for me?”

Mac gave her a hug.

“I’ll get your mother to bed, your aunt in a taxicab, and then head home. But telephone me if you need me.”

“Of course,” Phryne smiled. “I’ll just check in with Jack and head to bed myself.”

“Alone?” teased Mac.

“Under the circumstances it’s probably a good idea. I suspect I’ll be heading down to Tullaree in the morning.”

She felt rather than saw her friend’s disapproval, but Mac simply hugged her and told her to drive safe.

Back in the parlour, Phryne dropped all pretense and draped herself across Jack’s lap.

“I thought the desk was bad,” he teased, shifting so she had more room.

Phryne rested her head on his shoulder, feeling tension ease from her own shoulders as she did so. It was ridiculous, and she should probably regret it, but she really did not; she’d been managing her mother all day and she had a headache. If the warmth of a familiar body made it easier to bear, even briefly, then she might as well take advantage of it. Heaven knew her mother would give her plenty of opportunities.

Jack’s thumb was stroking against her ribcage, and he remained silent for some time. Phryne knew that they would need to return to Celia’s death again soon, but she reached up to play with his tie and laughed when he huffed.

“If you didn’t want me to undo it, you wouldn’t have worn it, Jack.”

“I am seriously questioning your logic right now,” he countered, tilting his head back so she could unknot it and slip from his collar. “I can’t tell if your mother loves me or loathes me.”

“Probably neither,” Phryne said, dropping the tie to the floor. “She’s not had a chance to decide, but it’s… not unlike her to make whatever declarations gain her the most attention. She— I love her very much. And despite what she was like today, she’s funny and kind and she genuinely wants me to be happy. But she is also exhausting. She likes to draw attention to herself—don’t laugh, Jack—and she thinks that the only route to happiness is the one she found and…”

Jack had begun to kiss her neck, and Phryne rolled her head back to give him more room.

“The point is, Jack, she’s never really stopped being that young girl who was swept away by a Twilight Waltz and promises.”

“And that is where you differ,” he said quietly, pulling away to meet her eyes. “And that is why I’m in _your_ parlour, ravishing _your_ neck, and _not_ your mother’s.”

Phryne laughed and pulled him in for a kiss. After several more minutes she felt her exhaustion lift, and she slid from his lap.

“They should bottle you as a headache remedy,” she teased, straightening her clothes and cleaning the smeared lipstick from her mouth. “Celia’s address?”

Jack handed over the envelope.

“I’ll head down in the morning, see what I can find out.”

She could see his disagreement cross his features, but he left it unsaid.

“Be careful? Please? If it’s a murder, Sergeant Rimes from Tarwin station will be the investigator.”

“Should I know him?”

“No,” Jack said, shaking his head. “Nephew of the deputy commissioner, sent to the back of beyond because he was too well-connected to fire and too stupid to function. Apparently they felt he’d do less damage out there.”

“Well, that’s no good. If it is murder…” she trailed off, then smiled. “I suppose you’ll just have to join me.”

“Afraid not, Miss Fisher,” Jack said, looking regretful. “It’s not my investigation.”

“Well, surely you could pull rank? It’s still in Victoria, after all.”

“It would be more than my job’s worth. The new commissioner is trying to tackle force corruption. No calling in favours or taking over unsatisfactory investigations at the moment. He’s not happy to be keeping Rimes on the force at all, but he’s playing the long game.”

“You do hear all the good gossip,” Phryne teased.

“Whatever idiot decided the Police Special Powers Unit should be in the same building as police administration has a lot to answer for,” countered Jack.

“Ahh, so I threw my lot in with the wrong inspector? I suppose it’s too late to train Will up?”

“Believe me, his mother tried.”

Phryne laughed; she’d heard stories of Jack and his best mate over the years, but since actually meeting Will she’d grown quite fond of the man. And Jack clearly felt that, now they were acquainted, he could be even more open. She’d still not managed to get the story of their near arrest as teenagers, but her birthday was in a few weeks and she had plans that involved bribing Will with some very good alcohol until he confessed all.

“Alright, so there’s an incompetent police officer—”

“An incompetent, very territorial police officer,” Jack amended. “Who may very well know you by reputation, and would use the first hair out of line to arrest you. And unlike me, the man _revels_ in paperwork.”

Phryne pouted playfully. “So there’s an incompetent, territorial police officer with good connections, and no chance of a rescue if I get caught. That sounds _fun_.”

“And that is what I was afraid of,” Jack said, and Phryne realised he wasn’t entirely joking.

“I’ll be careful. I’ll travel under a pseudonym—I just bought these darling eyeglasses with that in mind—and I promise not to be too nosey. But I can’t leave the murder of my mother’s friend in the hands of someone like that, Jack.”

“No, no. Of course not. I wasn’t suggesting—I just wanted you to be warned.”

“And now I am,” Phryne said brightly. “Are you staying tonight?”

Jack stood, slightly uncomfortable, and shook his head.

“It’s best if I don’t. Your mother might need you, and I’ll head to the station quite early tomorrow.”

Which was perfectly logical and the same conclusion she had reached, but Phryne had to admit that she was disappointed. Jack picked up on her mood, because he caught her elbow and pulled her towards him, an affectionate smile lurking in the corners of his lips. Just the corners, and she kissed them both.

“You’ll telephone as soon as you have news?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said. “First thing in the morning—well, in the mid-morning.”

“You should head home then,” Phryne said reluctantly.

He nodded slowly, accepting the logic but clearly warring with his baser instincts. Unfortunately, logic won the day and he kissed her goodbye.

He was almost out the door when Phryne spotted the strip of fabric on the floor, and bent to pick it up.

“Inspector?” she called, dangling the silk between her fingers. “I believe you forgot your tie.”

———

Jack arrived at City South just before eight, nodding to the constable and asking if anything had come in overnight.

“Several death notifications, sir, and an escaped prisoner,” said Reynolds, holding up a sheaf of papers. “They found him again, though.”

“Thank you. That will be all,” Jack said, taking the papers and heading towards his office.

Once inside, he sat down at his desk and quickly rifled through the papers. The notice he sought was near the bottom: Celia Arden, 64, of Tullaree—a house name—near Tarwin Lower. Body recovered the previous afternoon, cause of death suspected to be a head injury, officer presiding Sergeant Rimes.

Jack cursed lightly. Adrian Rimes was, as he’d warned Phryne, a pompous, good-for-nothing idiot who wouldn’t know good police work if it reached up and bit him on his self-important arse. Phryne was going to eviscerate the man, and Jack could only hope she didn’t get arrested in the process. He really didn’t fancy the paperwork it would take to get her released.

It was too early to call Phryne at home, so Jack set the paperwork to the side and started working on another case. The notification kept catching his eye, mocking him in a way almost frighteningly reminiscent of Miss Fisher when she perched on that corner of his desk. Surely he could make a _few_ inquiries? He smiled slightly at the thought—mere weeks in Australia and she was leading him astray once more. Not that it had ever taken a lot of convincing. He would finish this report and decide what to do.

At half past nine, his telephone rang.

“Inspector Robinson, City South,” he said.

“It’s Tim!” came a deceptively jovial voice.

“How can I help you, commissioner?”

“I thought I’ve told you to call me Tim?”

“Uh, yes sir,” Jack said.

When Tim Wilkinson had taken over the position a year before, he’d attempted to win over everyone from constables up by being so unbearably _nice_ that nobody could stand against him. Which wasn’t to say that he was easy; he was determined to deal with the corruption and scandal that had plagued the Victorian constabulary in the past few years, and he did it by expecting the same high standards from all of his men and coming down hard when they failed to meet them. He had been the one to approve Jack’s nearly-entirely-off-the-records-until-it-was-over investigation into the cocaine smuggling ring, overseeing the investigation himself.

“Robinson, I have a job for you. Came by my offices at twelve and we’ll discuss it over lunch.”

“Uh, yes sir,” Jack said.

“Good man. I’ll see you then!”

And then the call was over. A few minutes later Jack was called to the scene of a burglary, and before he realised it was time for his lunch meeting with the commissioner and he hadn’t yet telephoned Miss Fisher. He would need to apologise. Possibly stop by Wardlow after the meal and deliver the news in person.

Commissioner Wilkinson met Jack just outside his office, taking him to a deli around the corner.

“Robinson, there’s been a suspicious death,” he began without preamble. “And quite frankly, the man on the job isn’t up to the task. So I’m sending you.”

“Thank you, sir—”

“Don’t thank me yet, Robinson. This is a… delicate matter.”

He pulled a file from his briefcase and passed it to Jack.

“How delicate?” Jack asked, folder unopened.

“You’ll be going undercover,” the commissioner said. “The details of your cover are in there as well.”

Jack flipped it open, staring at the name in front of him: Celia Arden.

“And one more thing,” said the commissioner. “You’ll be married.”

Jack looked up, already suspecting he knew the answer to the question forming on his lips.

“Married to _whom_?”


	3. Chapter 3

Phryne came down to breakfast and found her mother staring at a letter. Margaret looked up at her footsteps, raising the paper.

“The last letter Celia wrote to me,” she said sadly; gone was the deliberate wailing of the night before, replaced by real exhaustion.

Phryne crossed the room and dropped a kiss to her mother’s forehead, then took a seat beside her at the breakfast table.

“Jack—Inspector Robinson is going to telephone once he has news,” Phryne said, selecting a piece of toast and slathering it with jam.

“He’ll investigate?” Margaret asked, sounding almost hopeful.

Phryne didn’t question her sudden change of heart over the man—her mother’s caprice was legendary.

“He can’t,” she said instead. “But I’ll go down to Tullaree once we’ve confirmed it’s murder. What exactly did the police officer say last night?”

“Why can’t he?” Margaret demanded, ignoring Phryne’s question. “I don’t want some… rural idiot on the case.”

Remembering what Jack had said about the lead investigator, Phryne found she really couldn’t disagree. She took a bite of toast and a sip of tea before answering.

“It’s not his station’s case.”

“He’s a member of the _Victoria_ Police Force, is he not? Not whatever little corner of Melbourne he’s based from,” scoffed Margaret. 

“He doesn’t set the rules—”

“And you’ve never met a rule you didn’t break, my girl. What has made you start now?”

“Mother, this is Jack’s job. And he’s damn good at it. I won’t… I won’t take that from him for any reason, and I won’t ask him to give it up any more than he’d ask me to. And if that means occasionally abiding by a silly rule, I can learn to accept that,” Phryne said, surprised by how easily the admission came. And it was not as if he would ask her to change, or she would stop investigating; she was simply choosing to be more aware of the difficulties presented when she asked him to do something.

Her mother nodded, and Phryne almost felt that she understood. At least until Margaret opened her mouth and sighed so loudly it blew the hair of her fringe.

“You might be lovestruck, but it’s not helping me.”

“He’s investigating as far as he can without getting dismissed from the force by the new commissioner. _I_ am going down to investigate in person, and despite what you are sure to believe I’m perfectly capable of getting answers. I really cannot imagine what more you expect me to do,” she said tersely.

“Oh, nothing darling. Of course you can’t help your mother bring her dearest friend’s murderer to justice—”

Phryne raised a hand to cut Margaret's well-worn attempts to guilt her into compliance. It was shocking how often it had worked in England, when Phryne hadn’t had the energy to argue.

“Not. Today. I am doing everything in my power. Jack is doing everything in his power. If you have a complaint, take it up with the commissioner and his regulations.”

Her mother’s back stiffened, but then she sighed and fiddled with the letter still in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m… I just want answers.”

What she didn’t was say was that they both knew what it was like to go without them. Phryne reached out to squeeze her mother’s hand, and gave her a small smile.

“You’ll have them,” she said, standing. “Now I had better get ready, so I can leave as soon as I’ve spoken with Jack.”

Phryne was almost out of the room when her mother spoke again.

“He was the one who arrested Murdoch Foyle, wasn’t he? And brought Janey home?”

The spectre of Janey was never gone entirely, but this time of year was always the hardest; the anniversary of her disappearance just gone and the anniversary of her recovery still to come. The sudden lump in her Phryne’s throat made it nearly impossible to speak.

“Yes, Mother. Without Jack… it might have played out very differently.”

“He’s a good man, then?”

Phryne nodded, eyes fixed firmly on the doorway so her mother wouldn’t see her face. “The very best of them, I think.”

———

Jack wondered, as he drove to Wardlow, whether he’d have been better off with Phryne Fisher remaining in England. He certainly wouldn’t be spending his free Saturday packing for what had to be the Victorian Constabulary’s most contrived undercover assignment to date. It took him approximately seven seconds to discard the idea though; one night in her boudoir, one day by her side was enough to compensate for the headache this was likely to cause, and in the past weeks he’d had more than he had ever anticipated. It had been… simple. As if, in the sheer giddiness of having a second chance, all quarrels had been laid aside and they had allowed themselves to just exist. A state that would no doubt end eventually, but he found a strange certainty that they would weather whatever else came their way. Somehow.

Presuming, of course, that the next few days didn’t kill him first.

Arriving at her house, he parked and hurried to the door. Mr. Butler answered his knock, and Jack asked to see Miss Fisher. The woman in question came down the stairs at just that moment, smiling warmly.

“Jack!”

“Miss Fisher.”

“Oh, come now. There’s no need for formalities. We are married, after all.”

His lips pressed together tightly, torn between reprimand and amusement.

“About that…”

“It came as surprise to me too, Jack. It turns out that the new commissioner is an old friend of my mother’s, and she took my suggestion of ‘directing her complaints to the commissioner’ rather more literally than I’d intended. Still,” she said, crossing the small distance between them to look at him through lowered eyelashes. The woman was completely irresistible. “I can think of worse ways to spend a few days than alone, with you, in a place where nobody knows us and there’s no scandal to be found by _being_ together.”

She stroked his lapels, smiling coyly. 

“And a murder,” Jack added.

“And a murder,” she confirmed.

“All the same, this is hardly taking it slow,” he said, swallowing hard.

They’d agreed to take things slowly, knowing that any attempt to go back to what they had been would not work and that an exploration of what they might be now could not be rushed into. It was an incredibly difficult distinction to maintain though when they seemed to fit so easily. 

“I never could abide speed limits,” she quipped, then softened slightly. “I _am_ sorry. Truly. I hadn’t realised she was going to do that until it was arranged. And you said yourself that Sergeant Rimes is completely incapable of running this investigation—I really can’t deny that I’d appreciate your presence.”

“In which case, Miss Fisher,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “would you do me the honour of becoming Mrs. Rogers?”

He held up a slightly dingy gold ring, and she laughed and held out her hand; as he placed the ring on her finger, it occurred to Jack that he had stood in this same position nearly two and a half years earlier to make her a Special Constable. Ring in place, he pulled her in for a kiss, unable to say anything else; there was something so very right in the fact that she’d been lovestruck by a tin badge and amused by a ring. She kissed him back eagerly, then pulled away to examine the ring—slightly dulled gold and coloured glass in place of a real gemstone, but it suited their covers of an accountant and his wife well enough.

“Your mother’s?” she guessed playfully.

“Ahh, no. Pulled it from the police property box for authenticity.”

Phryne laughed in delight, and Jack felt the slightest twinge; he did have his mother’s wedding ring, a simple pearl one that she’d intended to go to Rosie after her death, but his wife had been living with her sister by then. He’d never imagined that there would be another person he wanted to have it, and found himself with the one person who wouldn’t want it instead. Still, she wasn’t to know about that, and the amusement dancing in her eyes made the slight bittersweetness worth it.

“Speaking of cover,” she said, pulling away to grab something from the table by the door, “do you think Mrs. Rogers is the sort to wear spectacles?”

She put them on—he presumed the lenses were plain glass—and smiled winningly at him.

“I think that Mr. Rogers is excessively fond of his wife no matter what she does or does not wear,” Jack replied.

“And Mrs. Rogers thinks that her husband is showing an astute aptitude for the marital platitudes that make a happy home,” she teased, removing the eyeglasses and coming to draw her arms around his neck.

“All in the name of authenticity,” he managed. “Can you be ready to leave in an hour?”

“Actually,” Phryne said, “I’m already packed. But Mr. Butler is making up a basket for our journey down and—” she tugged him lightly towards the stairs “—we have an hour to spare.”

Jack smiled slightly.

“I suppose it would be prudent to… consummate our marriage,” he said, gliding his hands across her back and chuckling at the shiver it seemed to send through her. “If, I mean, one were inclined to such a thing.”

“Authenticity is the cornerstone of a good cover,” she replied. “And don’t let it be said that I balk at it.”

———

Nearly an hour later, Phryne was watching Jack wash and dress again. Muscles actually rippled beneath his skin, seeming to glow in the sunlight through the window. The man was obscenely beautiful.

“That almost compensated for your need to leave last night,” she sighed, flopping back onto the pillows when he bent down to pull on his socks

“Only almost?” he grinned.

“Mmm, if you’d stayed the night we could have repeated the performance.”

“I think you vastly underestimate my appreciation of sleep.”

“I think you vastly underestimate my powers of persuasion.”

He chuckled at that, and she wondered whether they could leave it another hour before heading down to Tarwin Lower. They had over two years to catch up on, after all. A reservation had been called ahead to a little holiday cottage near the town, taking it until the following Saturday—Phryne imagined the case would be done by then, or at the very least the undercover part of it—and there was no real reason they had to leave when they planned. Jack clearly caught her mood, because he paused from securing his braces to look at her.

“Absolutely not,” he said, and she wasn’t certain whether he meant underestimating her power or his chances of succumbing to the thoughts currently dancing through her mind. “I want to get there before dark.”

She pouted playfully and held out her hand; she meant to lure him back to the bedside to help her up, so she could twine around him and fix his tie, but caught a glimpse of the ring on her hand instead. She could still feel his hands on hers as he placed it, his thumb absently stroking the back of her hand, the overpowering size and warmth, the briefest flutter of _something_ in her chest and being uncertain whether it was pleasure or fear. Not that anything would come of it, but it should not have felt _meaningful_.

“Phryne?” he asked, suddenly worried.

She was going to kill her mother for putting them in this situation.

“Help me up, Jack. I’m not entirely certain I have use of my legs yet.”

A tiny head tilt and the hint of a smile on his lips called her bluff, but he crossed the room—one cuff secured, one not; no waistcoat, tie draped around his neck—and picked her up long enough to set her on her feet.

“Twenty minutes,” he said, kissing her forehead. It might have felt condescending, but it was a simple reminder for them both that he _could_ ; so many days she had fallen asleep thinking he never would. “Then we have to go.”

“It only takes me fifteen to dress,” she negotiated.

“I still need to speak with your mother about Celia,” he said. “And I’ve already fallen for that ‘fifteen minutes’ business before.”

“Twice, as I recall,” Phryne smirked.

“And I suspect I will again. But not today. I’m on duty.”

“Does that mean you don’t intend to imbibe liquor the entire trip?” lamented Phryne, remembering his refusal to take even a sip of champagne in Queenscliff and suddenly wondering what other pleasures he would feel required to forego.

“Only enough to maintain my cover,” he said.

“And…?”

Her eyes dropped to his trousers suggestively, and he chuckled.

“As a besotted husband, there’s a lot of cover to maintain.”

“Of course,” she nodded sagely.

They kissed again, until he stopped with a groan.

“Miss Fisher—”

“Mrs. Rogers,” she corrected. “You’ll need to get used to it.”

“I can keep a cover perfectly well, thank you, but you are most certainly not the demure Mrs. Norville Rogers—”

“You’re going by _Norville_?” Phryne asked, horrified. It sounded like a joke. Oh, please let it be a joke.

“It’s what was available.”

“I cannot call you Norville with a straight face, Jack.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” he said dryly, the tiniest hint of a naughty smile threatening to burst forth. “Just imagine screaming it out when I’ve got my tongue—”

“I’ll call you darling,” said Phryne quickly. “More to the point, who says Fern is demure?”

“Small town, trying not to draw attention to ourselves…” he said teasingly, though Phryne suspected he was at least partially serious. Either way, he was right. She wondered, briefly, whether it was too late to back out; even playing at the role of wife sent a shudder through her. He seemed to realise, because he laid a hand on her arm and looked her in the eyes. “It’s not too late to concoct another story.”

“No, everything is set up for this,” she said, shaking her head. An aversion to the institution was one thing, but letting it hinder her job was another. “And what other excuse could there be? You’re my brother? Absolutely not. I have _plans_ for you, and they don’t include limiting my attentions to the strictly sisterly sort.”

He smiled at her, so softly, and opened his mouth as if to reassure her that he would never… but shut his mouth again, and shook his head instead.

“I know,” Phryne said, surprised by how tremulous her voice was. She pulled him close, kissed him gently. “It doesn’t need to be said. Finish dressing, then go speak with my mother. We don’t want to be driving after dark.”

———

They finally set out for their three-hour journey mid-afternoon; Jack’s conversation with Margaret, intended to be short and simply to determine if Celia had mentioned any possible motives for her murder, dragged on for nearly two hours when Margaret provided pages upon pages of correspondence. Even with Dot—at Wardlow for the day and still struggling to find someone to watch young Winifred on a permanent basis—and Mr. Butler’s assistance wading through it all, they came up with very little to justify the time spent. Jack had not realised it was _possible_ to fill that many pages with the same few stories and conversational topics, or how very dull it could be. He did note how very little Margaret mentioned her daughter; at the time of the earliest letters Phryne had been single-handedly running the family’s estate and businesses to keep them afloat in a global financial crisis, sacrificing her own life in Melbourne to to do so, and yet she only seemed of interest when Margaret could speculate about her marriageability or likelihood of falling in love with whatever suitor came around.

Jack decided that, good points or not, he did not like Margaret Fisher. Moving on to the next letter, he found more of the same, and set it aside.

“Jack?”

“I can’t help but feel that reading these letters are an invasion of privacy without providing any information of real substance,” he sighed.

Conceding the point that there was little helpful to be found—there was quite a bit about the treasure, and people Margaret and Celia both knew, and some personal information Jack suspected Phryne would have rather kept a secret but there was nothing to be done for it now—they decided to head down to Gippsland. Jack offered to carry Phryne’s bags to the car while she said goodbye to her household: Dot and Mr. Butler were both entrusted with caring for Margaret, she asked them to have Cec and Bert do a few odd jobs while she was gone, and also—from what Jack could tell—pulled Dot aside to ask her to keep going through the letters and contact her if anything else was discovered. Then they got into Jack’s personal car—the Hispano was too ostentatious and the police-issued vehicle seemed too obvious when they were trying to avoid the attentions of the local officers—and began their long drive. 

They were approximately halfway to Tullaree when Phryne turned onto a narrow road—more a farmer’s path, really—and stopped the car. Twisting to grab the basket from the back seat and muttering about the roominess of her left-behind Hispano, she smiled at him.

“Picnic, Jack.”

Climbing out of the motorcar, he followed her to a shaded spot beneath a tree. When he lifted the lid on the basket he discovered a large blanket and spread it out. Phryne dropped to it rather dramatically, shoving her faux spectacles up to rest atop her head. Jack removed his suit jacket in concession to the early summer heat and sat beside her, knees drawn up.

There were sandwiches and a flask of lemonade; Jack began to eat, holding a sandwich out to Phryne. She squinted, lying on her back, and shook her head. Jack ate it instead, and they sat for some time in a companionable silence. It was a beautiful day, the sky a bright blue and the land a series of rolling green hills; it was idyllic, even to Jack’s very urban sensibilities.

“When did we meet?” Phryne eventually asked.

“Hmm?”

He tore his gaze from the landscape to turn to her. Her eyes were half closed as she basked in the dappled sunlight coming through the tree canopy.

“Norville and Fern. When did we meet?”

“Work?” Jack suggested. “She could have been the terribly efficient secretary who kept the place running.”

It was the closest thing to autonomy he could give her, under the circumstances; the dynamics of conventional marriage did not suit either of them, but it was what they had to work with.

“No,” Phryne rejected. “I think the only thing more dreary than never having an occupation is having had one and giving it up for the sake of marriage.”

Uncertain whether it would be welcome but very much wanting to touch her, Jack reached out and laced his fingers through hers. After a moment, Phryne sighed and rolled to face him.

“My mother was quite the artist, when she was young,” she admitted. “I mean, _of course_ she and Aunt Prudence were expected to be reasonably accomplished, but I’ve seen some of her sketches. They’re beautiful. Gave it all up when she married my father; there was never enough money for something frivolous like art supplies. The first thing she bought when we arrived in England was an enormous easel and pencils and paints, but as far as I know she never used them. It was like the passion had gone out of her.”

Trauma did that to people. Glancing at Phryne, Jack amended that—trauma did that to some people; others managed come out the other side sharper and more vibrant. Or they did eventually. He could see it in Phryne; the exhausted shell she had been upon her return was gone, leaving her vivacious once more, though slightly tempered. 

“Perhaps some sort of literary society?” Jack asked. “Fern Rogers could be a budding novelist of the sort that gets banned as an obscene publication, and Norville the dutiful husband funding the endeavor so she can distribute her work?”

Phryne chuckled. “As fun as that sounds, it’s hardly a subtle cover story.”

“No,” Jack agreed, leaning over to kiss her. “But that can be our little secret. Tell everyone else you write poetry about daisies and fluffy clouds, while we know better.”

“Our cover story has a cover story?” she laughed. “That’s the type of convoluted plan I like.”

“Think of all the research you’ll be obliged to do.” 

She tugged him down to kiss him again, one hand dropping to his arse, and rolled beneath him. Squirming playfully against him, she bit her lip as she looked up, eyes warm and lustful. Utterly terrifying, that expression.

“If we’re going to be Fern and… Norville—oh! Naughty Norville, the inspiration for the heroes in Fern’s novels—”

“I’m sure you have plenty of muses, Miss Fisher.”

“But _Fern_ doesn’t,” she asserted, as if it mattered. “Perhaps I’ll call you Naught, and pretend it’s to do with all those numbers you deal with.”

“Darling is fine.”

“Either way,” she said, wriggling against him once more, “I have Jack Robinson for a little while longer. And we’re all alone….”

He slid a hand up her skirt and beneath her, pulling her up against his hardening erection, and she grinned.

“Exactly what I was going to suggest, darling.”

Jack wasn’t certain how much of that endearment was Phryne and how much was Fern—she’d never called him that at home, which made him suspect it was a great deal of the latter—but he found no reason to quibble with it.

Half an hour later, they arrived back at the car and Phryne held out the keys. Surprised, Jack couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow; she huffed and placed the keys into his hand with great care.

“Phryne Fisher might enjoy driving, but I don’t think Mrs. Rogers would,” she said. “And on that note, did I leave the spectacles behind?”

“Not quite,” Jack said, motioning the top of her head.

She reached up, touching the frames.

“Not even vigorous activity could dislodge them.”

“I’ll try to do better next time,” Jack grinned, and she laughed. 

Then, sliding them down to her nose, Phryne settled into the passenger seat of the motorcar.

“Come on then, Jack. We don’t want to be late.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning, there's a brief moment of historically-appropriate racism in this chapter. Unllikely to be triggering, but I still feel the need to say Not Cool; unfortunately, it was part of the original legend and cutting it entirely did not work for a variety of reasons. And now I've said that, nobody else will notice. :-P

The holiday cottage on the edge of town was not quite what they had expected. The Victoria Police Force had selected a two-bedroom cottage for propriety’s sake, and while Jack had suspected that they would not take advantage of both beds, entering the second bedroom and finding the mattress covered in mildew rather robbed them of the choice.

“You do take your wives the nicest places,” Phryne said dryly. “There are limits, Jack, and this is one of them. Don’t unpack just yet.” 

Ten minutes later she was back, lips pressed together tightly.

“Well, the good news is that I’ve arranged for a different cottage,” she said.

“And the bad?”

“The replacement only has one bedroom. I could hardly argue the point as a married woman.”

Rather than reply, Jack picked up both bags and motioned her to lead the way. She did, showing him to a small cabin almost directly next to the landlord’s own home. Opening the door, she stepped inside the small cottage and through to the bedroom; she took the disruption with her usual aplomb, bouncing upon the mattress and remarking that it was comfortable at least and probably long enough that Jack’s feet wouldn’t hang off the end. Probably. Jack found less amusement as he surveyed their surroundings; he’d survived in worse, but if sharing a bed proved untenable the only other options were two armchairs that had seen better days or the slightly warped wooden floor. He sighed. 

It was not her fault any more than it was his, but this was the first time they had… not had the option to retreat if things became too intense. And they were determined to take things slow, to rediscover all the things they’d forgotten or never known; that what was between them would become serious eventually seemed almost inevitable, though they never said it or defined what that would mean. But now they were here and in close quarters, and Jack—who had, in his years of a dying marriage and divorce, grown accustomed to the luxuries of solitude—could not help but feel the tiniest hint of reservation. Especially when Phryne looked at him like _that_ and he forgot all of his very valid objections.

Still, he supposed there was no point in borrowing trouble when they had more pressing concerns. Even if Phryne did manage to take up most of the wardrobe when she unpacked—she had chosen her outfits on the sensibilities of an accountant’s wife instead of her own proclivities, and it was odd to see such mundane dresses, her usual style restricted to a collection of small accessories.

Their clothes put away, Jack extended his arm with a grin. 

“A stroll before dinner, Mrs. Rogers?”

Phryne rolled her eyes, pulling on a cloche before taking his arm.

“You do realise that if you keep calling me Mrs. Rogers people will think we’re newlyweds?” she asked.

“Or married for so long we can barely tolerate one another.”

She blinked twice and looked up at him.

“I don’t think that’s an inevitability,” she said, to his surprise. “And nobody would believe that about _us_ , anyway. I like walking on this delicious arm of yours far too much.”

“Then newlyweds it is; it doesn’t make much of a difference, and it’s less history to create. And people tend to be far more tolerant of the quirks of the newly married, which might give us more leeway.”

“Very well,” Phryne said, “and what date will we claim to be ours?”

“The fourth of November,” he replied without hesitation, and she almost dropped his arm in surprise. “If that’s alright with you?”

It was the day she had flown home to Melbourne and greeted him over the arm of a dead police informant. It had not been the reunion either of them had wanted, and to embrace that time—her erratic behaviour, his lies, her suspicions that he was covering for a dirty policeman—was a bold statement. Too bold, he thought for a moment, but then she leant up to kiss his cheek.

“A Wednesday wedding sounds ideal,” she said. “I suppose the only real question is if you cried when you saw the bride.”

“Definitely,” replied Jack, his voice husky. “She was stunning.”

She swallowed at that, a soft fondness in her eyes.

“Come along, Mr. Rogers. You’ve promised me a walk.” 

———

They walked the length of the town’s main road, up one side and down another, taking it all in. It was a tiny place, no more than a hamlet really; a public house and one tiny restaurant were the only places that served food, there was a shop that appeared to sell a little of everything but not much of anything, and the post office was a tiny little office in the back of it. The police station was in the slightly larger town seven or eight miles further along the same road, and the Arden homestead, Tullaree, was somewhere between the two. As they walked, the spoke about any number of small things—a book she had read, a film he’d been roped into seeing, what would grow in the garden of “their” little bungalow over the summer. It was a surprisingly pleasant way to spend half an hour, and it served its purpose—by the time they arrived at the restaurant for a cup of tea, everyone in town had heard about their arrival. Piquing their curiosity was the fastest way to getting answers, and Phryne tried very hard not to crow in victory.

They sat at a table near the back of the restaurant, ordering tea and cakes, and when the server had left Phryne leant towards Jack.

“That girl was utterly taken with you,” she whispered. “Ask her about Tullaree.”

Jack’s look in response was reprimanding, but he clearly knew she was right; the reprimand turned into a confident smirk, and when the woman returned with the tea he turned on his charm. 

It was thrilling to see, knowing that she had no reason to be uncertain in him. There had been times, in the past, when she had been—she would begrudgingly admit—jealous; it was a silly thing, and he had never intended to provoke it, but there it was. But those were women he knew, who had claims on pieces of his life denied to her by choice or circumstance. This? This was merely a man confident in his appeal enjoying a good flirtation, and that was supremely attractive.

He had engaged the woman on local history—she was too young to have much knowledge, but she topped up his tea while telling him how the entire area had been reclaimed from swampland by the digging of drainage ditches.

“And if you want any more, you’re best to talk to Eamon Holloway,” she said. “His family’s been in the area for years, and he’s an amateur historian.” 

Jack listened and nodded, and when the girl’s advances become more overt, he ceased to flirt.

“There’s a house around here, isn’t there?” he asked, turning to Phryne. “What was it, dear? Ta…Too…?”

“Tullaree,” Phryne replied with a smile. “I hear the architecture is stunning.”

The girl sniffed, seemingly displeased by Jack’s gentle rebuff.

“I wouldn’t go there,” she said. “The lady’s mad. Her and her dog are always coming into town. They say she’s rich, but you’d never know it to look at her. And she certainly didn’t keep the land—half the land ‘round her place is swamp now, because she ain’t maintaining the ditches.”

“How very odd,” Phryne said. “Sounds rather romantic.”

Jack raised one dry eyebrow at her.

“I’m not quite sure Miss Havisham is the sort of inspiration for romance that I’d favour.”

“Oh no,” said the girl. “That’s Miss Arden. Cecilia? Something of the sort.”

Phryne hid her laugh by coughing into her napkin, steadfastly avoiding Jack’s eyes. It would be quite cruel to laugh at the girl, who really could not be to blame for her lack of education, but there was something in this scenario—alone and undercover and communicating tiny little asides in their own manner—that made laughter easy to find.

“Thank you for the tea,” she said instead, and dug into her cake.

———

Eamon Holloway’s house was a small worker’s cottage set back from the main road on the opposite edge of town to the holiday cottages. Phryne had taken Jack’s arm once more as they walked, her fingers tattooing a beat against his bicep.

“Are you quite well, Mrs. Rogers?” he asked, and she smiled brightly.

“Very well, darling. I’m merely… distracted.”

The quick flick of her eyes down his entire body told him exactly what sort of distractions she was considering.

“You’re easily distracted,” he replied. “Twice already today, unless I’ve lost my ability to count. Which would be a shocking development for an accountant.”

“Or an advantage,” laughed Phryne. “And I can’t help how my mind works.”

“Nor would I ever want you to,” he said.

She stopped without warning, head cocking to look at him.

“You really mean that, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“You are one in a million, Norville Rogers,” she said, her quiet voice caressing his pseudonym so gently he knew she meant Jack Robinson.

“Meaning there’s six of me in Australia alone?”

Standing in the middle of the street in a tiny little town when they were supposed to be keeping a low profile, she dragged his head down to kiss him fiercely. When they broke apart, panting, she kept his forehead pressed against hers.

“You’re the only one I’ve ever known, and don’t you forget it,” she said with surprising intensity, as if willing him to believe her through sheer force of will; since her return, there had been glimpses of… _something_ , ill-defined but there. As if she needed to compensate for the distance and doubts that had come between them; it made his heart ache every time.

Before he could decide how to respond, a passing motorcar honked and they jumped.

“I think we need to speak with Mr. Holloway,” Jack said ruefully. Case first, contemplating the enigma that was Phryne Fisher later.

She turned on her heel and resumed walking; Jack quickly fell in step beside her. The cottage was settled in a little group of three, charming little homes with shrubs along the front wall, and denoted not by numbers but by colour. Eamon Holloway’s place was white chamferboard with a red door and trim, and Phryne bounded up the few stairs to the door and knocked.

“Demure, Mrs. Rogers,” Jack whispered into her ear, and she turned to look at him innocently. Before she could make whatever salacious comment sprang to mind, the door opened and revealed a man in his mid-thirties.

“Mr. Holloway?” Phryne asked.

“Yes.”

“Fern Rogers. This is my husband, Naught—”

“Norville,” Jack interjected, extending a hand to shake. “Norville Rogers. We were told you know all about the history of the area?”

“What are you after?” Holloway asked brusquely. 

Phryne smiled, and Jack tried to hide a smirk; it took more than that to frighten them off.

“If this is a bad time we can come back, we simply wanted to learn more about the area. It’s so beautiful,” said Phryne amiably. “Josie over at the restaurant said you were the man to talk to. If you aren’t, I’m certain there will be someone else to speak with. Didn’t Josie mention another name, darling? What was it again?”

Jack pretended to think for a moment, and the man bristled slightly.

“Nobody else worth talkin’ to,” he said, stepping aside and motioning them through the door.

The brief smile Phryne flashed Jack was smug, and he shook his head in response. They were led through to a parlour with faded wallpaper and worn chairs, as if the owner hadn’t actually looked at the place in years.

“This was my mother’s house,” Eamon said, as if hearing Jack’s thoughts. “She came from one of the oldest families in the area, and spent most of her life compiling information for the local record. After she passed away I decided to continue her work.”

“How wonderful!” Phryne said; Jack couldn’t quite tell if she was playing a role or genuinely flirting, and felt bad for wondering at all—her flirtations, sincere though they usually were, were also an investigative tool that had proven effective many times. And more importantly, though he had to admit the idea came later, was the point that he had no interest in seeing her vivacity curtailed. In truth, it was reassuring to witness it.

“Port?” Mr. Holloway asked, opening a decanter.

Jack was on the verge of declining—undercover or not, _Miss Fisher_ or not, there was still a case and he was in active pursuit—when Phryne nudged him. One of the pieces hanging on the wall was a pencil sketch of a mansion.

“Is that Tullaree?” Phryne asked. “My mother was there years ago as a guest of the owner, and it matches her description.”

Eamon followed her gaze, setting the port aside.

“Ahh, yes, back when it was in full glory. Selling to Celia Arden was the most foolish thing the family has ever done,” he said derisively.

“How so?” Phryne asked.

“This whole area is reclaimed swamp,” he explained. “The _Chinese_ were hired to dig all sorts of drainage ditches, and it is a wonder they were ever finished, but the Arden woman bought Tullaree with her father’s dubiously earned money and never maintained them. The entire property is all swamp again, aside from a little corner where her tenants live. You see her sometimes, coming into town for food with that damned dog of hers; I shudder to think of the state of the house, not that anybody goes there nowadays.”

“How awful,” Phryne said. “My mother always said there was buried treasure there.”

Jack couldn’t resist shooting her a disbelieving look. The victim was clearly disliked by at least one townsperson, and Phryne was chasing up _treasure_? She shot him a cheeky look right back, clearly enjoying it.

Holloway was nodding.

“Back in 1853, Captain Sawyer and his crew sailed _The Inverloch_ from Venus Bay and along mainland China, bringing food to areas torn apart by war—”

“Profiteers,” Jack said bitterly.

“I prefer to think that they found an arrangement that suited everyone. The Chinamen got food, the Australians jewels. The only real loss was to the temples, and what good is gold when what you need is grain?” Eamon said arrogantly.

“Or rice,” said Phryne pointedly; Jack knew that she was less than pleased, but Eamon seemed to take it as agreement.

“Precisely, Mrs. Rogers. And the stories say that the treasures were brought back here, and buried somewhere on Tullaree by Captain Sawyer.” 

“Do you believe it?” Phryne asked.

Eamon shrugged. “Every land needs its mysteries. Now, did you say you wanted port?”

———

It was late evening when Phryne and Jack returned to their cottage. Jack brought their few purchases—mostly things for their morning breakfast—into the kitchen area, and Phryne headed straight for the bedroom to shuck off her clothes in favour of a silk slip and nothing else. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the quilt beneath her hands as she watched Jack enter and begin to change. He paused in his task halfway to look at her questioningly.

“You’d almost think you’d never seen a man undress before,” he teased, smiling at her.

She hadn’t. Well, of course she had. But there had never been… a situation like this. An _intimacy_ like this, when they were together not by some mutual passion—though she suspected Jack wouldn’t fail to come through on that front—but because it was presumed, because it was not about sex, but about this moment right here where she sat to watch as he brushed his teeth at the wash stand and buttoned up green cotton pyjamas. So mundane, and yet she wanted… she _wanted_.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering with the pyjamas,” she lightly replied.

“I—I didn’t want to presume.”

“Not presume your own wife’s desires?” she asked coyly, and the flash of unspoken disappointments crossed his face; Rosie, of course. The two of them had found friendship in the ashes of their marriage, but it could not erase history. “Darling, you can presume away. If there’s…” Phryne hesitated, dropping the last vestiges of Fern Rogers. “I’ll always be honest with you, Jack. That much I can promise you.”

His fingers lingered on the last few buttons, leaving them unfastened as he came to sit beside her. He’d never asked for her promises.

“There is also the small concern about the thinness of the walls,” he said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Which, considering they had heard the landlord coughing from a cottage away that afternoon, was a valid concern.

“I’m not always loud, Jack.”

He lowered his lips to her throat and she sighed.

“No,” he agreed between kisses, peeling the gown up and over her head. “Not always. But often. With a—” he moved downward across the newly exposed skin “—a liberal use of my name—” 

He’d reached her breast, and sucked the nipple sharply until she keened.

“Jack!”

“Precisely,” he said, moving to pull away; she caught the back of his neck and held him there. “Thank you for proving my point.”

“I can be quiet,” she argued. She was not going the whole damn week like one of Dot’s nuns.

“I’m not entirely sure you can…”

Rather than argue _her_ point, she decided to prove it. Moving away to kneel upright in the middle of the bed, she pressed her lips firmly together and met his eyes in challenge. He reached out to trace one finger across her torso and down; under other circumstances she would have moaned and bucked forward, but her pride was worth more than her desire for his fingers.

“Hmm,” he considered, eyeing her naked body. The sheer confidence in his demeanour made her wetter, made her ache. “A game?”

She remained silent, her gaze never faltering.

“Alright, a game,” he said. “You prove to me you can be quiet, and I try to see if I can make you scream.”

Phryne tilted her head slightly in agreement, mouth still firmly shut.

“Are there rules?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“So no rules… well, we both know that’s not my forte, so I’ll set them instead. Any sound counts. No dirty tricks to win. If you are uncomfortable with the events you can stop at any time, and the forfeit will be mine… anything else?”

She shook her head again.

“Then we begin.”

He stood, prowling around the bed as he assessed the situation; she could feel his eyes warm on her skin, and tried not to shift beneath the heat of them. Reaching out, he brushed his fingertips down her back, tracing her spine and coming to rest at the dip at the small of her back. The pads of his fingers were warm and tender, and the only point of contact between them; the electricity arced between them even there.

Withdrawing his hand, he divested himself of the half-buttoned shirt and then his pyjama trousers. Then he rocked back onto his heels as he looked at her again, clearly planning his onslaught like a police operation; the mere thought of him exerting his authority made her nipples pebble, and she tilted her chin higher in challenge.

He began to explore her body, light touches and kisses and nuzzling his face against her, his day’s stubble unexpected and yet somehow so familiar. His tongue flicked across her skin, a teasing taptaptap and then a soft suckle, leaving the skin reddened. She saw it when she glanced downward, his face tilted up to meet her gaze before bending down once more to nudge her thighs apart. 

A tender kiss between her legs, almost an afterthought as he moved past it to taste the curve of her hip and then down; when he found the place behind her knee that tickled and thrilled in equal measure, she almost gave in, begged him to take her, pleaded for more than these featherlight touches that only made her want more. Made her want _everything_. Instead she pressed her lips tighter and took a deep breath, wondering how ragged it had to be to count as a noise; regardless, he would not win that easily. She had waited for him to be ready before.

He read the challenge in her expression, because he came to kneel before her and kissed her lips gently. Phryne clenched her fists to keep from dragging him down, certain that to lose control now would be to lose the game. Would be losing herself, or the part of herself she was certain could be consumed by a man like him. Consumed, or transformed; she did not know which would be worse. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she tried to stay still.

It terrified her, the idea that she wanted him to win, to draw sounds from her she was unwilling to give, that she trusted him so easily that the fear was secondary to the pleasure he evoked.

He drew back once more, head tilting as he reconsidered his plans.

“No,” he said. “As delightful as this is…” he considered for another moment, “over onto your hands and knees, face in the pillow.”

She complied, and he ran his large palms from her shoulders to her hips, coming to kneel between her parted thighs. Then he leant forward, his body resting over hers, and pressed his lips behind her ear; she shivered in anticipation.

“Is this alright?” he whispered.

She nodded emphatically, not trusting that her voice would be able to mask the desperation pounding through her.

“I like it so much better when I can hear you, Miss Fisher. Every moan, every scream, every desperate buck of your hips telling me you what you want—as a compromise, this seems much preferable.”

He slid into her, slow and assured, and Phryne muffled her groan in the feather pillow; with the same slowness he began to withdraw, and her groan turned into a whimper. He felt so good inside her she didn’t want it to end, even if it was only long enough for him to fill her once more, the satisfaction of each stroke never lasting long enough.

He moved again and again and again, heedless of her desires to keep him deep; the movement became almost unbearable, the absence too much and the presence too short.

“Jack,” she groaned, forgetting all pretense as he entered her again.

He took mercy on her, picking up speed; one hand moved from her hips to stroke her clit until her orgasm built hot and tight and desperate in her, until she was thrusting with him, trying to keep him inside and trying to chase those wicked curls of pleasure his fingers brought, until her thighs trembled beneath the strain of it, until she snapped and screamed against the pillow as her hands gripped it fiercely, until she thrust forward so hard she felt him slip out entirely, until she was sobbing with pleasure and relief, until, until, until…

After a moment she felt his lips pressed against her shoulder blade, his fingers stroking her side. She rolled over so she could look up at him, his eyes half-closed as he watched her, his long eyelashes golden in the glow of the bedside lamp.

“Alright?”

She trailed her hands across the muscles of his back and gave him a smile, his erection still between them.

“Better than,” she purred, her exploration coming to pause on the globes of his arse; she pulled him towards her and slid down the mattress. “And now,” she said, wetting her lips. “It’s my turn to make you scream.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavyheadedgal is directly responsible for the final scene of this chapter, though I doubt she even remembers the comment that led to it. LOL

On Sunday morning, Jack woke up with Phryne’s head on his chest, a scene surprisingly domestic in its familiarity, as if they had been doing this for years instead of weeks. And only a few nights a week, at that. It should not feel so… _much_ , not when they were trying to be slow, be cautious. But she was nestled so firmly, her breath tickling the hair there—she had told him that she’d glimpsed it during the case in Queenscliff and almost broke her embargo on seducing him; he had wondered what the hell she _had_ been doing, if it wasn’t intentional seduction—and her chin nearly digging into his breastbone when he attempted to move.

He traced the line of her spine, feeling her shiver even in her sleep, and waited. For what, he did not know, at least until she stirred sleepily and looked up at him.

“Mmm, morning Jack.”

“Should I be jealous of this Jack?” he teased.

“Definitely,” she purred, the cat comparison reinforced by the way she stretched and rolled onto her back. “Only man I’ve waited for.”

He moved over top of her, catching her hands with his and raising them both above her head.

“And now,” he said, barely brushing his lips against her, “you’re here… with me… and not some foolish Jack…”

“Ahhh, yes. Naughty Norville and his muse-like prowess. My publisher was just after me for another novel…”

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Rogers, we have a homestead to visit this morning,” he said, releasing her to sit up.

The look she gave him was devilish, and then she closed her eyes as she began to stroke herself.

“You go on, Norville,” she said, her second hand caressing her breast. “A man like you wouldn’t know what to do with me anyway.”

To Jack’s credit, he lasted nearly a minute before succumbing.

“You are going to be the death of me,” he muttered.

“I hope not,” she laughed, stroking his cheek; he could smell her arousal lingering on her fingers. “You’re far more fun alive.”

They did eventually manage to emerge from between the sheets, Jack starting breakfast while Phryne attempted to make the bed—attempted being the operative term, as he heard her muttering from the sitting room-cum-kitchen as he fired up the range to put the kettle on and tried not to laugh. He suspected that she was perfectly capable of changing beds, but they had done quite a bit to tangle the sheets and she was out of practice.

Finding an empty bowl and a frying pan, Jack began to make omelettes; after some time he realised that silence had fallen, and the awareness of being watched prickled the back of his neck. He turned to find Phryne watching him, wrapped in a silk robe of dark green.

“Morning, Norville,” she teased, taking one of the chairs at the tiny table.

He produced a hot cup of tea and placed it before her with a flourish, and she closed her eyes and hummed as she raised it to her lips.

“I almost don’t miss Mr. Butler.”

“Only almost?”

“Mmmm,” she said quietly, “if I had Mr. Butler, we’d still be in bed.”

“I’m not entirely certain it’s possible to solve a murder from the boudoir.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“I have not, and I doubt this is the time to start,” he smirked, placing two plates on the table and sitting down to eat.

When they were done, Jack cleared and washed the dishes while Phryne dressed and packed their supplies for the day. Then they drove towards Tullaree; halfway there, Phryne sighed.

“It’s a crime scene, Jack. Probably swarming with police officers.”

“This is where we benefit from Rimes’ incompetence,” he said, eyes on the road. “You’ll notice nobody in town seemed to know Celia was dead? My bet is that he had a couple of men collect the body and take some photographs, then left it. The commissioner was going to make sure all the warrants were in order for today though, so when you inevitably feel the need to break police procedure make sure it’s out of my line of sight.”

He smirked slightly at her knowing chuckle.

“And if I need your help?” she asked flirtatiously.

“It’s remarkable what I can do with my eyes closed.”

“I just bet it is,” she agreed, reaching across the seat to lay a hand on his thigh. “Perhaps next time.”

“Phryne…” he warned, trying to keep his focus.

She pulled her hand away, but it didn’t resolve the predicament he found his trousers in. A fact she acknowledged by slipping one finger beneath his waistcoat and the placket of his shirt to stroke the skin beneath his navel.

“I like watching you,” she confessed quietly. “And there never seems to be enough time.”

It was the spectre of their time apart once more, he suspected; a braver man than he was would ask her. Instead he pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped, reaching out to cradle her head, tangling his fingers into the softness of her hair and bringing his lips to hers.

“There will be time,” he said quietly, pressing his forehead against hers. “Time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions, before you take my toast and tea.”

She chuckled softly.

“I didn’t take you for a Prufrock admirer,” she said.

“A man struggling to understand how to be modern?” he replied, smiling wryly. “No, I can see why it didn’t occur.”

“You’re far too hard on yourself, Jack. And I object to the idea that I’d take your tea—a woman must have some standards, and sugar in my tea is one of them.”

“And here I was thinking that you were a woman of good taste,” he replied, smiling at the memory of accidentally selecting her teacup one morning at Wardlow. There had been enough sugar in it to make his teeth ache, and she had laughed as he grimaced at the taste.

She shook her head slightly, then smiled at him.

“I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure what’s come over me today.”

Jack pressed another soft kiss to her lips, then began to drive once more.

“When I was twelve,” Jack said after a moment, “I had the most awful case of scarlet fever. I was bedridden for weeks, and even when I thought I was well there were times it took me by surprise how easily I would tire. I thought the first cold that came along after it might kill me.”

There was a twitch to her lips that told him she understood his meaning, but verbal acknowledgment was more than he would expect.

“Janey had scarlet fever once. It was awful. She and Mother ended up spending several weeks with Aunt Prudence while she recovered—I’m not entirely sure she would have if they’d stayed home.” 

“Mmm,” Jack said. “That was the first time my family came out this way; just a little cottage by the seaside for a week, but it made a huge difference to be… away from the thick of it all. My mother insisted on making it an annual event after that.” 

“Whereas being here is in the thick of it this time,” Phryne said with uncharacteristic straightforwardness, surprising him.

“In the thick of it is where you thrive, Miss Fisher. You’re contrary like that.”

She laughed loudly, and whatever contemplative gloominess had infused her dissipated as quickly as it had come. Jack turned the car back on and they continued their journey; another mile down the road they passed a small cottage—“That must be the tenants Eamon Holloway mentioned,” Phryne said, pointing to a van in parked in a makeshift drive. “We can stop on our way back to speak with them.”—and a half mile after that the land became unpassable. Jack parked on the side of the road once more, and two pairs of fishing waders were produced from the back seat.

“My mother would be horrified,” Phryne grinned, shucking off her shoes in favour of the waders. Stepping out of the car, she struck a pose. “What do you think?”

“They do wonders for your arse,” he grinned back, provoking a shocked laugh from her.

“I’m not sure if that was Jack Robinson or Naughty Norville!”

“Perhaps a bit of both,” Jack replied, slipping on his own waders. Leaving his hat, coat, and suit jacket in the front seat of the car, he offered Phryne his arm.

“Shall we?”

“How gallant!” she exclaimed playfully, taking his arm. “You do know how to show a girl a good time. Tullaree should be just ahead.”

Slowly, they made their way to the nearest hill—if the house was there, all the better, but at the very least they would be able to orientate themselves better from higher ground. After the fourth swarm of midges in as many minutes—really, the definition between clouds was surprising considering how closely they were packed—Jack coughed.

“I am beginning to remember why we never moved into the country,” he said dryly.

“We? Your family?”

“Rosie and I,” he corrected. “There were a few promotions outside of Melbourne and Rosie thought…” she had thought it would be good for the children, at least until school started. “Well, it hardly matters. I had had quite enough dirt to last a lifetime, gardening aside, and we didn’t.”

Which was a gross simplification of the events, but Jack couldn’t help but feel that ‘in a swamp and surrounded by midges on the way to a crime scene’ was not the time to perform a post-mortem on his marriage.

“I must admit,” she said, staring at her mud-caked waders, “it’s not a personal favourite.”

They continued their slow trudge towards the first hill, Jack hoping—in vain—that they would not be eaten alive as they did so. Thankfully as they approached they noticed an almost overgrown driveway, leading to the mansion on top of the hill, previously obscured by the heavy foliage. They both stopped short when they saw it.

“That’s…”

“Not what I expected,” Jack said.

It was a long, low building, single storey except for a small tower on either end. It was, quite frankly, hideous. And in such terrible condition it would not have looked amiss on the streets of Collingwood if it wasn’t for the sheer size. Broken windows were boarded up with hammered tin or bits of wood, and sections of the façade were crumbling. 

“I’m beginning to see what Mr. Holloway meant,” Phryne said, starting up the path. The overgrown sections had recently been pushed back enough to pass single file, supporting Jack’s suspicions that the death had barely been investigated.

The door was slightly ajar, and Phryne pushed it the rest of the way open and stepped inside the darkened building. Shaking his head at the shoddy police work, Jack followed. 

———

Tullaree was not the grand mansion of her mother’s stories of balls and hunting parties, a veritable castle in the Australian countryside in her mother’s memory. It was a development that was in no way surprising, and yet Phryne still felt a twinge of disappointment, quickly shaken off but there. She stepped carefully, noting the stench of rot and mildew, and laughed softly when Jack put his foot through _something_ and cursed.

“Really, Jack,” Phryne teased, looking back. “I thought you more cautious than that.”

“I can only blame your influence,” he retorted, and she laughed again.

They made their way further into the house, picking their way carefully through the mess. Once-grand furniture rotted in place, most of it covered in moth-eaten sheets, and grime covered the unbroken windows, leaving the rooms gloomy. There appeared to be no electric lights or devices, illumination instead provided by stubs of candles dotted along the house.

“I’m beginning to think Satis House would be an improvement,” Jack said as they entered another room, much the same as all the others.

There were two doors off this room—the first led to a room in such poor condition Phryne couldn’t bring herself to step inside. The second caused her to gasp: it was a large conservatory, the enormous far wall completely covered in windows. _Clean_ windows. This room was in perfect condition, in fact; the wood floor gleamed warmly in the summer sunlight, and several large tables and easels were covered in art supplies.

“I’m going to guess this is where she spent most of her time,” said Jack, approaching one of the tables.

Sketches and watercolours took up every available surface. Quite a few landscapes and wildlife pictures, and multiple paintings of the same dog—Celia’s companion, Phryne presumed—but there was a collection of portraits as well. Phryne sucked in her breath when she spotted one, and she picked it up.

“It’s my mother,” she said, then saw another. “And here’s Aunt Prudence.”

They were young and dressed for a ball, Margaret in pale green and Prudence in blue. Jack took one from her hand, and smiled slightly.

“You have her nose,” he remarked, before replacing it on the table.

They continued to sift through the portraits; many seemed to be from Celia’s youth—there were several of Margaret, including one that Phryne was fairly certain was her parents waltzing, faces obscured but still somehow them. She showed Jack.

“Cinderella,” he remarked, smirking slyly.

“Except Mother went from riches to rags,” Phryne replied, but found herself slipping the small picture into her bag. Her mother would love it. “She should have left before midnight.”

Another portrait caused Phryne to laugh quietly.

“It’s Aunt P and Hilly McNaster. Do you remember her?”

“It’s not terribly often I end up a guest where the hostess’s son is a murderer,” Jack said. “That seems to be more your habit than mine.”

“I simply know more interesting people,” she tossed back, still rifling through the artwork.

He didn’t reply to that, and after a moment she glanced up. He was contemplating something—Queenscliff, perhaps, or Phryne’s habit of collecting interesting people. Which would need to be addressed at some point—they were taking things so slowly there had been no natural segue into the topic, and the truth was that she’d been so preoccupied in reestablishing her life in Melbourne that she hadn’t even contemplated it. And now was not the time for either of them to start down that path.

“Jack?”

He shook his head, seeming to notice Phryne’s concern.

“Do you recognise anyone else?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. This man might be my Uncle Edward, but I’m not certain,” she said. “There’s almost as many of this woman as my mother—” she indicated a portrait of a red-haired woman, “—but I don’t know her.”

They examined the rest of the room, then continued on. There was a relatively clear path from the conservatory to the stairs of one of the towers; Jack eyed them warily. Phryne bounded up, not stopping as she called over her shoulder.

“Celia was clearly living up here, Jack. It’s fine!”

She sensed rather than saw his shaken head, and could imagine the begrudging smirk that would be on his face as he followed her up. At the top of the tower were three doors; Phryne opened the most likely one—there were boot prints leading to the door—and gave a victorious hum.

“First try,” she bragged.

“I’m not entirely certain that was an adequate test of your detection skills, Miss Fisher.”

Laughing loudly , Phryne turned to look at him; his attempt to appear serious was in vain, the corners of his lips twitching, and she was struck—not for the first time—by how much she had missed him. Still, she was here now. She began to meander around the room in a manner that probably appeared illogical but always seemed to produce results. There was very little to be found; reading glasses on top of a book of arboriculture, some decorative items, several of Celia’s paintings hung on the wall, a very worn robe draped over a chair.

“I think our good friend Rimes has let most of our evidence be trampled,” she sighed.

“Sadly, not a surprise. Your mother said she was found in bed?”

“I believe so, yes.”

They reached the bed at the same time, on opposing sides.

“Not much blood,” Phryne said skeptically, examining the small amount on the pillows. “And no real splatter. Do we know cause of death?”

“Suspected head injury is all the report said. The commissioner is having a copy of the autopsy results sent to the cottage, but we won’t know more until tomorrow.”

Phryne did another sweep of the room, checking in drawers and beneath furniture, but came up empty.

“Next room?” she asked, and they headed back to the corridor.

The room next door was locked; Phryne quickly picked it and entered. It was filled with junk in varying states of decay, and the floor looked questionable. The third door was unopenable, the wood swollen shut with damp; peering into the keyhole, Phryne announced that it was empty, and a hole in the floor meant it was unlikely anybody had been inside in years.

“Perfect place for wildlife,” Jack said absently, and she jumped away from the door.

“What sort of wildlife?” she asked, voice tentative, and Jack looked embarrassed.

“Rabbits,” he lied, and she smiled; his answering grin was open and adoring and just that tiny bit awkward, all the more precious for its rarity.

“Rabbits are exceptionally fond of decrepit mansions in the middle of a swamp,” she agreed. “I don’t think we’re going to get anything else out of here until we have cause of death.”

“Head back into town then?” Jack said.

It was a Sunday, and with it came the promise of new people to speak with.

“Yes,” she agreed. “And we wanted to stop at the tenants’ cottage on the way back.”

They carefully made their way back down the stairs, not breathing deeply until they were back outdoors. Halfway back to the car, Phryne heard a whimpering, and Jack paused as well.

“Hello?” she called out.

Another whimper, then a sharp yelp. Not human, then. It had come from their left, and when more yelps followed Jack released Phryne’s arm and headed towards it.

“Celia’s dog?” Phryne questioned, coming after him.

A moment later the dog came in sight, caught beneath some scrub brush. When it noticed Jack and Phryne it became agitated, barking more frantically and struggling against the branches holding it down. Phryne was trying to assess how they could get close enough to free the poor thing, half out of its mind in fear, when she realised Jack was moving towards it and speaking lowly—as he approached the dog calmed slightly, and began to wriggle and wag its entire body. A quick flick of a branch was enough that the dog could release itself, and it proceeded to roll onto its back, covering itself in swamp mud in the process. Jack leant down to scratch it.

“I didn’t take you for a dog lover, Jack.”

He glanced up, looking embarrassed.

“Uhh, yes. We always had one when I was a kid, but I moved to the Academy and then…” he shrugged slightly. “It was never terribly practical.”

Phryne had never had much patience for what was practical.

“We can’t leave it out here,” she said, eyeing the filthy creature. “There’s a blanket in the car, if we can get it that far.”

“She’ll come,” Jack said. “Poor thing would probably follow anyone promising a meal right about now.”

Phryne doubted that, but was fairly certain the dog would follow Jack at least—there was an odd sort of adoration in her eyes, and Phryne couldn’t help but think it was a perfectly understandable impulse.

“Well, let’s get her back to town at least. I think we could all do with a bath and something to eat.”


	6. Chapter 6

Jack covered the shivering dog in a blanket—they’d left the picnic hamper from the day before in the motorcar, and with it the blanket—and stroked her head until she laid down on the back seat. She was a pretty little thing, tri-coloured, keen-eyed, and friendly despite the circumstances. Some sort of herding breed mix, at a guess—collie or kelpie, possibly.

“She’ll give us a reason to talk to the tenants,” Phryne said. “But she’s not sleeping in the bed.”

Jack hadn’t given the plan much thought beyond getting her out of the swamp, and smiled at Phryne.

“I’m sure there’s someone in town who knew Celia and would take her,” he said, but Phryne eyed her doubtfully. “Come along, Mrs. Rogers. We have potential suspects to speak with.”

Tearing her eyes away from the dog, she smiled broadly.

“You do know the way to a girl’s heart,” she said, opening the front door and sliding into the passenger’s seat.

With one last stroke on the dog’s head, Jack moved around to the driver’s side and shifted the car into gear. While he’d never admit it to Phryne, he almost missed her driving. Or, rather, driving with her. It was terrifying, of course, and he didn’t enjoy doing it often, but knowing that she’d not have the chance for the sake of their cover—even if Fern Rogers was the sort to drive, the last-minute nature of the assignment meant there was no paperwork in place regarding licenses for women—was oddly unsettling.

Soon enough they were at the tenants’ cottage, and Jack stopped the car. He intended to ask what the plan was, but Phryne was already out of the car and approaching the small building. Jack followed.

“Hello!” she called, and the door opened to reveal a young woman—early twenties, at a guess—with blonde hair neatly rolled. Phryne waved. “Hello, my husband and I were just passing by—”

“You going up to the Arden place?” came a gruff voice from the house.

Jack drew level with Phryne, reaching out to clasp her elbow. She shot him a quick and irritated glance, which Jack did his best to ignore.

“Just coming back, actually,” Jack said, attempting to sound friendly. “We found a dog up there, caught in some scrub. She yours?”

The blonde woman shook her head, then stepped aside as the origin of the voice followed her outside. He was a big man, maybe ten years the woman’s senior, dressed in trousers and shirt, his dark hair flopping across his forehead.

“That damned mutt gets everywhere, but she ain’t ours,” he said. “Belongs to Miss Arden, or did until the old lady died a few days back.”

“Really?” asked Phryne, wide-eyed. Jack just barely stifled a laugh at her attempts at innocent. “How terrible.”

The man nodded. “Coppers up here and all.”

“That would explain why nobody answered the door,” Phryne said. “I’m Fern Rogers, and this is my husband Norville. Miss Arden was an old school friend of my mother’s, and since we were in the area we thought we’d say hello. Oh darling,” she continued, looking to Jack, “Mother will be terribly disappointed.”

“As she perpetually is,” Jack said dryly, then turned his attention back to the couple. “Did you know her well?”

The woman nodded, eyes glancing to the man as if to confirm the admission was alright. The dynamic between the two of them set Jack’s instincts on edge, and from the stiffness in Phryne’s posture she was thinking the same thing.

“Miss Arden was our landlady,” she said. “I’m Edith Barton, this is Alfie.”

Alfie glowered at Jack and Phryne.

“Wasn’t going to be our landlady long,” he muttered.

“Oh, were you looking to move?” Phryne asked cheerfully.

“No. Celia Arden was gonna sell us the property, on the condition that she remained at Tullaree until her death rent-free. We weren’t bloody expectin’ it to happen before we could sign the damned paperwork. Now we’re gonna have to talk it over with whoever inherits the estate. You don’t happen to know who that is?”

“Not at all, I’m afraid,” smiled Phryne. “We hadn’t even realised she’d passed away.”

“‘Passed away’ my arse,” said Alfie. “Police reckon she was murdered and they think I did it.”

“Oh, Alf, don’t you think you’re blowing this a little out of proportion?” asked Edith. “All Sergeant Rimes said was that he had a few questions, since we’re the only house nearby.”

“I know what a suspicious copper looks like, Edie, and he’s already made up his mind about my guilt.”

Which sounded exactly like the Adrian Rimes Jack knew and loathed. Still, he couldn’t fault the man for having his suspicions about Alfie; it was finding _evidence_ one way or the other that Jack wouldn’t trust him with.

“I’m sure it will be sorted out in no time,” Jack said, forcing himself to smile. “Fern and I best be getting back into town then. Nice meeting you both.”

They were almost back to the car, Edith and Alfie staring daggers at their backs the entire time, when Phryne paused and turned.

“Oh, one more thing,” Phryne called back. “Do you know anything about the treasure?”

“There’s no damned treasure,” Alfie growled. “It’s a story she set around to make herself seem more daring and exciting than a rich girl made poor. And even if there was, good luck finding it in the mess Arden made the place.”

“A shame,” Phryne sighed. “It sounded so interesting.”

Back in the car, Phryne adjusted her glasses.

“I don’t trust Alfie as far as I can throw him,” she said.

“I can’t imagine why, Miss Fisher,” Jack replied, pulling the car onto the road and heading back towards town.

“He did raise a good point though—who inherits Tullaree now that Celia’s gone?”

———

Back in town, Phryne and Jack stopped by the cottage to change before walking to the public house for a Sunday roast. The dog followed them in, keeping close to Jack’s heels—Phryne tried hard not to laugh at his apparent confusion—and settling at his feet when lunch was ordered.

“Should I be jealous?” she teased, watching Jack slip a piece of his lamb beneath the table.

“I imagine your seat is more comfortable than the floor, if that’s what you mean,” smiled Jack.

Spontaneously, Phryne reached across the table to lace her fingers with Jack’s, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb. The impulse seemed to be coming more frequently, to reach out and touch him as if uncertain he was real; a brush of fingers, kisses on the cheek, hands wrapped around biceps or joined together. It was a reassurance she did not want to crave, but did not want to forego.

Halfway through their meal, Jack headed to the bar to replenish their drinks, the dog trailing behind. She watched him get dragged into a conversation with an old man seated there, and smiled before turning back to her meal. A few minutes later she heard someone behind her; it was the historian from the day before.

“Mr. Holloway!” she beamed. “Are you here for Sunday lunch? Take a seat, please.”

The man declined, saying that he already had a table, but mentioned that he had a book on local history he thought might interest them.

“Or you, rather,” he said, producing the thin book from a pocket. “It’s a copy of Captain Sawyer’s diary. I had a small number published recently.”

“The treasure?” Phryne asked, unable to suppress the genuine thrill she felt at the idea. “How delightful!”

“There’s no map, I’m afraid,” Eamon smiled, “and it’s from another journey, but it’s an interesting read nonetheless.”

At that moment Jack returned to the table, and Eamon quickly handed over the book and made his excuses to retreat back to his own table. Jack watched him go with amused consideration.

“He’s very friendly, considering you’re a married woman,” he observed.

“You aren’t jealous, darling?”

Jack looked at her levelly.

“I was well aware that you were an incorrigible flirt when I married you, Mrs. Rogers.”

Phryne took a sip of the drink he’d brought back from the bar and winked.

“Naturally. What took you so long?”

Jack shrugged.

“Ted at the bar was asking about the dog. I was hoping he’d take her in, but his missus is allergic.”

“Pity I’m not,” Phryne said.

They finished their drinks and meal, steering clear of any topic connected to Celia Arden, then took a slow walk back to the holiday cottages. They were met by the landlord when they arrived, a middle-aged gentleman who had taken over the business when his sister—the titular Miss Mary of Miss Mary’s Holiday Cottages—had passed away. 

“You’ve had _two_ telephone messages, Mrs. Rogers,” he said, apparently shocked by such a thing. “One from a Mrs. Collins asking you to return her call, and one from a Lady Fisher.”

Phryne bit her tongue so she didn’t curse, and smiled at the landlord.

“Oh, that’s my aunt,” she said. “Delusions of grandeur, I’m afraid, but I’m not quite sure how she got the word we were here. I’ll ring them both back, thank you.”

The landlord nodded, then noticed the dog at Jack’s feet.

“Pets are extra,” he said gruffly.

Jack pulled out his billfold and paid the surcharge without a quibble, and Phryne resigned herself to canine company for the evening. She strode towards the cottage and unlocked the door, leaving it ajar for Jack and the dog to follow her through. Tossing her hat on the table, she reached the telephone and requested Dot’s line.

“Hello, Mrs. Collins speaking.”

“Dot, darling, it’s so good to hear from you. Norville and I were just wondering how Melbourne was getting along in our absence!”

“Very well, m—Fern. I’m all caught up on my correspondence.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Oh, more of the same really. But Hugh happened to mention that there was someone you might like to visit? A Michael Arden, who lives in Tarwin.”

That would be next of kin, Phryne presumed.

“Marvelous. Do you have an address?”

Dot relayed it and Phryne jotted it down, then she said her goodbyes and hung up. Her mother was next, but Phryne decided a cup of tea was needed before she braved that particular nightmare. Jack was of a similar mind, because he already had the kettle on and was sitting at the small dining table making notes.

“Your mother _is_ aware we’re undercover?” he asked, not looking up.

“Since it was her idea, I am presuming so,” Phryne replied, rolling her eyes.

“And she is aware that accountants and their wives rarely get social calls from baronesses?”

Valid point or not, she didn’t appreciate the tone of his voice.

“There was no harm done, Jack,” she said in her mother’s defense. “We’re only ‘undercover’ to appease an over-sensitive blowhard. Even if this does get out, it will simply make us more interesting to talk to.”

“Phryne—”

“I’ll talk to her,” she said curtly. “Tell her that her worries about her murdered friend are terribly inconvenient.”

He looked up at her sharply. “That’s not what I meant. Just…”

“It’s fine, Jack. I’ll see what she wanted if you make the tea.”

If Phryne’s flounce towards the telephone was a little more flamboyant than the situation required, she assured herself it was simply a coincidence. So much for marital harmony.

———

The next morning, Phryne woke up to an empty bed and had to tamp down the first instinctive panic. She could hear Jack in the other room, having started breakfast, and realised she was being utterly ridiculous. She was a grown woman—she could wake up without needing someone beside her. The evening before hadn’t even been that dramatic, in the end; her mother had simply wanted an update. Phryne had brought her up to speed and made her promise to wait for Phryne’s calls in the future, and Jack had apologised when she hung up telephone. Then Phryne had apologised for being short with him and they’d reconciled in Phryne’s favourite way—repeatedly—before spending much of the evening reading in bed; Phryne working through the copy of the diary, Jack with a novel he’d brought. Her stomach growled, bringing her back to the present, and she pushed the covers back and wrapped herself in a robe before padding to the kitchen.

She watched Jack cooking, actions sure and confident. He’d donned a vest rather than a waistcoat, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled almost to the elbows; combined with the bare feet, it made him look markedly relaxed. 

“I could get used to this,” she remarked, making him jump. “Mr. Butler has many virtues, but I must admit he doesn’t fulfill my aesthetic desires in quite the same way.”

“Very funny. Can you start the toast?”

“You trust me not to burn it?” Phryne asked, somewhat surprised. People tended to assume that boiling water was above her cooking skills, and she made no effort to dissuade them of the notion.

He looked at her dryly.

“If you burn the entire cottage down, it will get me out of this assignment. Food or freedom, take your pick.”

Phryne stuck her tongue out at him and began to slice the bread. They moved around each other with surprising ease, and breakfast was soon ready. They had just sat down to eat when there was a knock at the door; Jack answered it, returning a moment later with a large envelope.

“Autopsy report?” Phryne asked.

“Letting me open the envelope first would help, but yes I presume so.”

Saying so, Jack quickly slid his finger beneath the flap and pulled out a note from the commissioner—signed Tim, of course—and a copy of the autopsy report and the case details available to Russell Street. Phryne moved her chair so they were side-by-side, and they read the report in tandem. Cause of death was a blow to the head, the wound matching a bloody hammer recovered on scene. Reading the specifics of the injury, Phryne hummed a little.

“This says she was recovered in her bed—”

“Which we knew already.”

“Yes, but look at this. There is no way she had this level of injury and only produced the tiny amount of blood we saw in the bedroom.”

“Maybe she wasn’t killed in the bedroom then?”

“That seems likely, and begs the question of where she was murdered and why was she moved.” 

“We’ll have to go back to the scene.”

Phryne nodded in agreement, then flipped to the second page.

“That’s odd.”

“What?”

“There are no defensive wounds. Which would make sense if she was murdered while she was sleeping, but not if she was elsewhere and moved to the bed. The coroner didn’t even notice.”

“It’s… not the most thorough report I’ve seen,” Jack said. “And while paperwork isn’t the place to start rampant speculation, regardless of what you’d like to think, Miss Fisher, not noting that is an oversight.”

“Makes me wonder what else was overlooked.”

“Mac?”

“Mac. I’ll telephone her after breakfast.”

“I will,” Jack said. “I’ll have to speak with the commissioner as well, to get her a copy of the report. And besides, it’s your turn to do the washing up.”

Then he swallowed the last bite of his eggs, kissed her cheek, and headed to the telephone. Phryne rolled her eyes at the almost nauseating domesticity of it all and began to do the washing—she wasn’t one to shy away from doing her fair share, she just preferred that ‘fair share’ came in paying money for other people to do the unpleasant tasks. From across the room she could hear Jack place a call, and when she realised it was with his boss she tuned it out as best she could. She didn’t bother when he telephoned Mac, and caught his voice dropping low as he spoke to her. Curious, Phryne dried her hands on a tea towel and turned, leaning against the countertop to watch him. After a moment he said goodbye to Mac and looked at Phryne, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Did you know your mother was just named heir to Celia’s estate?”

“What?” she asked, surprised by both the development and the question. “No, of course not. I’m quite sure I would have mentioned that.” 

He ran his hand across his face.

“I just spoke with Mac. Celia Arden’s lawyer contacted your mother this morning: Celia named her sole heir six weeks ago, ousting the one living relative—a great-nephew named Michael—from the inheritance.”

“Dot gave me his name and address last night. I was going to suggest we head over to speak with him this afternoon. That does explain why teh police telephoned her, at least.”

Jack nodded, clearly still distracted.

“You do realise this means we’ll have to consider your mother a suspect?”

Phryne snorted. “Please, Jack. She was in Melbourne driving me mad, and she only arrived the day Celia’s body was found. I saw her get off the ship myself.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time more than one person was involved.”

“Are you suggesting my mother _paid_ someone to kill her friend?”

“No!” exclaimed Jack, then sighed. “I’m saying that, as investigators, we have to entertain the possibility that she did.”

Phryne folded her arms and glared at him.

“I know you’re not my mother’s biggest fan, but that’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

A tiny— _very_ tiny—part of her suspected that he was right. While she knew her mother wouldn’t do such a thing, and hadn’t had a chance even if she would, a proper police investigation would have to determine that for itself. It didn’t mean that she had to like it—and she most certainly didn’t—but he wasn’t wrong.

“Phryne, I—”

“I know. Jack Robinson always has to do the right thing,” she said irritably.

“Jack Robinson has a moral obligation to follow every lead, not just the ones that are convenient or pleasant to contemplate. And it’s not as if you haven’t done the same.”

She had, and she would again. But this was different.

“This is my _mother_ , Jack.”

“And we all know you are completely sensible when it comes to her,” he shot back. The cringing expression on his face told her he regretted it immediately, but she was not inclined to let him off so easily.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

She placed a hand on her hip.

“Oh, it’s clearly something.”

“Forget it.”

“No, I want to hear this.”

“She—” he paused, jaw clenching. “She asks a lot of you.”

“She’s had a hard time, Jack.”

“A lot of people have. That does not preclude being grateful or considerate towards others.”

“Does she not meet your standards?” Phryne shot back, her desire to defend her mother at least partially incited by the unpleasant feeling that Jack might have a point.

“I just think… no good is going to come of this conversation. Forget I said anything.”

“If that’s the way you feel, Jack, perhaps you would feel better with someone else running this investigation.”

“Why?” he shot back, eyes flashing. “Afraid I might be corrupt?”

Her first instinct was to chuck every freshly washed dish at his head, starting with the crockery and ending with the cast iron frying pan. Instead, she clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms, and grit her teeth so hard it hurt.

“I’ll wait outside for you to be ready,” she said coldly.

“Phryne, you’re in your—”

She raised a hand.

“Don’t.”

Swallowing hard, she headed to the door.


	7. Chapter 7

Jack’s accusation echoed in the empty room. He hadn’t meant it, of course he hadn’t. He hadn’t even realised such an idea was rattling around in his head, apparently ready to emerge at the slightest provocation. He sighed, trying to be objective: Phryne’s suspicions had stung, but they had been understandable, and they hadn’t had the time to discuss them further even if they had been so inclined. But there was nothing to discuss—she had misunderstood and he had misrepresented, and the combination had led to painful conclusions. But he _understood_ , and throwing it in her face was utterly inexcusable.

He was, quite frankly, surprised she had not retreated to the bedroom to pack her bags.

Carefully tidying away his notes, he returned them to the bedroom and finished dressing; a tie he’d chosen because Phryne had remarked on how flattering it was—he wondered if he should change to something else, but decided not to—and his suit jacket, socks and shoes. Then he headed outside, ready to make an apology he did not know how to make. Phryne was sitting on the stoop, knees drawn up, the thin silk of her robe not quite enough for the early morning chill. She looked up when the door opened, eyes red, then stood and moved back indoors to dress; he tried to catch her arm to say _anything_ , but she pulled away without a word. He let her go.

Twenty minutes later she emerged from the bedroom, clothes and makeup perfect, and adjusted her hat.

“Come along, Mr. Rogers,” she said, “we have a murder to solve.”

“Phryne—”

“Fern.”

“Alright, Fern. I’m—”

“What part of ‘don’t’ did you fail to understand?” she asked. “Not now. Shall we head back to Tullaree, or try our luck with the great-nephew?”

“Nephew,” Jack said. “We can stop by Tullaree on the way back, but if we go there first—”

“Mud.”

The drive into Tarwin was silent; several times Jack went to apologise and she glared so firmly he bit back the words. There was little he _could_ say—his suspicions of Margaret were justified and he would not take them back, and as for the other... no excuse or apology would suffice. When they arrived in town, Jack parked along the main road, and pointed to a small building.

“That’s the police station,” he said. “Should we split up and meet back in a few hours?”

Phryne shook her head. “That’s just going to raise questions, both of us nosing around on the same topic. We’ll stop by the Michael Arden’s first, then get some tea and an early lunch at the cafe. Maybe fit in some shopping to give us a reason for coming.”

“If you think—”

“I think a lot of things, Norville,” she said curtly, stepping out of the car. “You might even be shocked by some of them.”

Twenty-four hours earlier, that sentence would have meant something entirely different. He followed her out of the car and down the road; they arrived at the nephew’s address mere minutes later. Unfortunately the man did not answer the door, and according to the neighbour hanging her washing in the garden, he was out of town for a few days.

“It’s quite a pressing matter,” Phryne said. “Do you know if he has any family in the area who might know where he is?”

The woman shook her head. “Only family I know of ‘s an aunt, and they don’t get along.”

“Thank you anyway. Did you say he’ll be back on Thursday?”

“Far as I know,” the neighbour said, pinning a sheet to the clothesline.

“We’ll just have to come back this way on Thursday then, darling,” she said to Jack, her voice light but her expression taut. “Thank you for your time.”

They took a more circuitous route back to the main street and the cafe they’d pointed out before. On another day they would have talked and laughed, or worked through the case again. Phryne held herself apart though, and the walk was silent. It was too early for lunch, so they ordered tea and watched out the window.

“Is that…?” Phryne said, startling Jack. They had been nursing their teas for quite some time. He followed her gaze to see Celia’s tenant, Alfie, leaving the general store with a spade. “That’s odd.”

“Not that odd.”

“He has a spade—I noticed it leaning against the cottage when we stopped,” she said quietly.

“Perhaps it broke.”

“In less than a day?”

“What’s the alternative?” Jack asked. “You can’t still be holding on to the treasure theory.”

“As if it’s any more absurd than the alternatives,” she retorted. “Buried treasure or vast conspiracies from a woman who wasn’t even in the country—”

For the first time since… well, to be honest since before she’d left for England over two years earlier, he wondered whether working together would remain feasible in the face of their shifting relationship, already on unstable ground. He tried not to examine the implications of that—if they did not have investigations, would there be enough between them? Was the potential loss of their professional partnership worth the nebulous possibility of something different? And if the price of this different was to so easily hurt her with careless words, could it ever be a price he was willing to pay? No. That way lie madness; there was a murder to investigate and boundaries to respect, and he could focus on those and wait for her word on the rest. 

“Finish your tea,” he said quietly, rather than giving any of it voice. “I feel the Rogers garden is in dire need of a replacement spade.”

———

The general store netted Jack a new spade and the investigation no new information, even with Phryne’s charms drawing the proprietor into discussion. The town of Tarwin, though small, was far less prone to gossip than Tarwin Lower. It seemed that fewer people knew much about Tullaree or its odd inhabitant, and if they did know anything, they certainly weren’t talking to some visitors from Melbourne. By mid-afternoon, Jack was ready to beat his head against the nearest wall—at least when people were obstreperous during a proper investigation, he knew why.

Finally, even Phryne appeared to have had enough and suggested they return to the homestead to look around again. Driving back towards Tullaree, Jack considered attempting another apology, but she had asked him not to and it would be particularly unfair to thrust one upon her when she was a captive audience. They parked and changed into waders once more, then made their way towards the house.

“It will be faster if we split up,” Phryne said as they approached; Jack went to argue the point—it would be faster, but given the state of the building it would also be more dangerous—but stopped himself.

“Shout if you find anything,” he said, following her inside. She turned right and he went left, and for the next hour he went through the rooms with a careful eye. He was back in the conservatory, rifling through a pile of correspondence he’d found buried beneath artwork—a few routine letters from her solicitor and many from Margaret Fisher, the contents much the same as the letters Margaret had shown them before they’d left—when he heard her shout.

“Norville!”

Dropping the papers, Jack hurried to follow her voice. There was no panic in her voice, but resorting to his pseudonym left an uneasy feeling in him all teh same; he wished he’d brought his police pistol. She shouted again and he found her in the kitchen, looking her usual insouciant self.

“Spider,” she said, pointing beneath the long bench-style table by the range. A teacup sat on the surface, half-drunk.

Jack bent down; it wasn’t a spider but a small spot of blood; on close examination, the floor around it was suspiciously cleaner than that of the rest of the room. It seemed they had found their initial crime scene. He glanced up and nodded to show he’d seen, still wondering why she was obfuscating events; when he stood he noticed the footprint near the kitchen door, mud still fresh. Someone else had been in the house, and Jack seriously doubted that it was the police.

Another glance at Phryne and he realised that she was holding her pistol, tucked against the loose fabric of her skirt.

“Fern,” he said, a little more loudly than necessary, “it’s just a spider. I’ll take it outside.”

By the time he’d opened the door, his hands cupped around a fictional spider—there were days Jack realised the full absurdity of his job, and this was one of them—there was no sign of the other visitor, if they had been there at all. Coming back inside, he measured the bootprint—about a half-size down from his own—and looked to Phryne.

“Back to the cottage?” he asked.

Nodding, she tucked her gun away.

“Did you find anything?”

“Some letters,” he said, deliberately avoiding the identity of the writer. “I didn’t see anything of use in them, but we can’t carry evidence away to double check.”

“I will never take a cooperative police force for granted ever again,” Phryne said.

Jack’s first instinct was to tease her that she should not make promises she didn’t intend to keep, but he bit it back. It wasn’t the time. He tilted his head and headed towards the exit.

“It hasn’t been a complete waste of a day, at least,” he said as they trudged through the mud.

“No,” Phryne agreed. “We know where Celia was killed, and that someone is still looking around.”

———

Back at the cottage, Jack began to prepare dinner while Phryne rang Mac.

“How’s married life treating you?” Mac teased when she realised who it was.

Phryne glanced to where Jack was working, and the difference a few hours had made in the sight unsettled her. He still moved with confidence, but there was a stiffness to his posture that hadn’t been there that morning, and he’d stopped talking to her beyond strained necessities.

“My initial assessment was right,” she muttered darkly.

“What did you do?”

“What makes you think it was me?”

“Long experience.”

“Well, you’re wrong in this case. Have you seen the autopsy report yet?”

“Mmm.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Why be thorough when you can see the cause of death at a glance?” Mac said caustically. “The conclusions drawn don’t add up, and there are several things I would have chased up that aren’t noted at all. I can’t be any more help without getting my hands on the body, I’m afraid.”

“And if we could arrange that?” Phryne asked, hoping they could.

“By stunning coincidence, I have three days off starting tomorrow and an excessive fondness for spending it in the middle of nowhere.”

“Have I mentioned lately that I utterly adore you?” Phryne asked.

“Not recently enough,” Mac said dryly. “I’m not sorting out whatever tiff you and Jack Robinson have gotten into, though.”

“It’s… complicated.”

“It always is with you.”

Phryne had a sudden memory of Jack saying the same thing, though she couldn’t remember when, and felt an odd rush of affection.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.

“We’ll get the first train down. Where are you staying again?”

Phryne gave her the name of the cottages and said goodbye. Hanging up the receiver, she paused to watch Jack chop some onions. She wasn’t even mad at him, she realised. Hurt by what he’d said, yes, but not _mad_. He was still avoiding her though, she presumed to work through his own feelings.

“Mac’s coming down,” she said. “The autopsy report is more of a mess than we thought.”

Jack nodded, sauteing the onions now. “Will she need to see the body?”

“Will that be a problem?”

“It will be hard to explain why a coroner from Melbourne is coming down, that’s all. I’ll think of something.”

Silence fell again.

“Do you need help with dinner?” Phryne asked, hating how hesitant the offer was.

“There’s no need.”

Huffing slightly, she began to lay out the dishware.

“Phryne, I said—nevermind.”

Clearly he needed more time. She left the table half-laid and curled into a chair by the fireplace, continuing to read the copy of Captain Sawyer’s diary. It did not cover the time period of the treasure, and other than a passing reference or two to what the Chinamen had given there was very little to suggest it existed. It was a fascinating yarn though, and she was quite engrossed when Jack coughed.

“Dinner,” he said.

They ate quickly, without talking. Jack kept his eyes focused on his plate. It was beginning to feel like a punishment, and the contrary part of Phryne wanted to punish him right back. The rational part of her brain told her that she was being unfair—he had abided by her wishes when she’d asked him to give her time, and she could extend him the same courtesy. When the meal was done, he washed the dishes while Phryne got a fire going in the fireplace—even though it was approaching midsummer, there was a nip in the air. The evening was spent reading their respective books, Phryne glancing up from time to time to watch Jack’s face. She enjoyed watching him read, the few times she had had a chance, watching the quick flick of his eyes and the tiny smile on her face as he immersed himself in another world; this time, though, his expression was closed off and she had no idea how to reach him.

Eventually she was finished with the diary, which had shed no light on their investigations, and set it aside. It was still quite early—just gone ten—but the tension of the day had left her tired.

“I’m heading to bed,” she said. “Are you tired?”

“Ahh, not yet,” he said, not looking up from his book.

Wondering irritably whether he intended to remain miserable all night, Phryne retreated to the bedroom, changing quickly and climbing beneath the sheets. Even with her disgruntled state it didn’t take her long to drift off. She woke several hours later, judging by the position of the moon, and realised the bed was empty—a quick brush of Jack’s side of the bed confirmed it was cold, and she sighed. Leaving the bed, she secured her robe and headed to the other room. He was asleep in an armchair, and she would have almost believed it was accidental if he hadn’t drawn a spare blanket around himself. She stepped over the dog and pulled the blanket back, setting it aside; he opened one bleary eye.

“Come to bed, Jack,” she said softly, dropping onto his lap.

“I thought—” he stopped, shaking his head. “What I said this morning was… inexcusable.”

His hands came to rest on her hips, holding her steady.

“It was,” she confirmed. “It might have been the cruelest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“I’m sorry. It’s entirely inadequate, but…”

Even in the dark room, Phryne could see the sincerity in his eyes, and the fear that it had been too much. Not anger that had kept him away, then. She kissed his cheek, brushing her lips against the skin.

“Never do it again.”

He buried his head into her shoulder instead of replying, breathing deeply; she stroked his hair.

“You weren’t wrong though,” she admitted.

“I was.”

“About my mother, I mean.”

“I should have…”

Her hand drifted to trace his ear, rubbing the lobe between thumb and forefinger.

“There are a lot of things we both should have done,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean…”

She paused, determined not to cry; it was utterly mortifying how close she was. Pulling away from her shoulder, Jack looked at her—the hopefulness in his eyes left her breathless.

“Come to bed,” she said quietly, standing and tugging his hand. 

Stepping over the sleeping dog, he followed her through to the bedroom. Their lovemaking was slow and careful, and when it was done he looked at her with immeasurable tenderness.

“It takes more than a few cross words to frighten me off,” she said softly.

“I didn’t even realise it bothered me,” he admitted. “I _know_ why it happened, and in your place I would have done the same.”

“But it still hurt.”

He smile was endearingly self-deprecating. “So it would seem.”

“We’ve both survived worse than thoughtless words, though.”

“That doesn’t make it acceptable.”

“No. And if either of us was the sort to speak without thinking on a regular basis—” the look he gave her was playfully doubtful, and she laughed. “You know what I mean, Jack.”

“I do,” he agreed quietly, reaching out to lay his hand on her hip.

“And _we_ can survive worse.”

They already had: childhood shadows and feelings too serious to be borne and investigations that could have destroyed his career; a year of silence, two years of separation and uncertainty. In light of that, this was nothing. It was nothing, because together they could be everything. His fingers flexed, drawing her closer to him once more. 


	8. Chapter 8

Phryne woke before Jack did, and rolled over to face him. It occurred to her that she’d never been in this position—Jack was an early riser and often had other places to be, and there had not been that many shared nights, in reality. She brushed his hair, traced the line of his jaw, kissed the moles on his cheek, filled with a sudden urge to memorise him. She moved the sheets to peer beneath, following the line of his throat, his shoulders, his torso—

“You’ve seen it before,” he rumbled; she jumped in guilt, but quickly recovered.

“There’s just so much to admire,” she smirked.

He peeked through half-opened eyelids and smiled. A warm smile, sweet and open, and she impulsively kissed the tip of his nose.

“Phryne?”

His brow furrowed, as if remembering the argument from the day before and uncertain… well, she could make him certain.

“Jack, for future reference—when I’m mad and I say ‘not now’, I mean not _now_ , not never. ”

“I didn’t…”

“You were trying to do the right thing,” she said. “But while I might need time, I don’t—” she hesitated, the immensity of what she was about to admit hitting her, “I don’t like to be the only one making attempts at reconciliation. I used to watch my mother twist herself into knots after she and my father argued.”

He nodded, silent and contemplative, as if attempting to place this piece into a particular puzzle; then he gave a slightly naughty smile, rolling on top of her, and raised her hands above her head with one hand. He slowly kissed his way down her torso, his morning stubble in contrast to his soft lips.

“I suppose, Miss Fisher, since you came to me last night, it’s my turn to…”

His tongue dipped into her navel.

“It’s for the best,” she sighed in agreement as he continued downward. “Ohhh…”

Reaching his end destination, he paused, his breath warm against her skin.

“How much time do we have?”

“Some,” Phryne said. “Mac won’t be here before lunchtime at the earliest. And unless you want to wander around town and talk to people—”

“I’d probably be subjected to more speculation about the Tullaree Treasure if I did,” groaned Jack. “I think I’ll stay in bed.”

“Jack Robinson being idle?”

She felt the smirk rather than saw it.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he chuckled, voice deep and delightful. “We’re supposed to be reconciling, after all.”

———

Getting out of bed just after eleven—possibly the latest Jack had gotten up in years—he headed to the kitchen to start brunch. The dog leapt up from where she had been dozing, wiggling madly to get his attention. Jack let her outside, admonishing her to stay close—as if she had any idea what he meant—and began extracting the food from the coolbox. A few minutes later, Phryne emerged from the bedroom, utterly naked and proud of it.

“Not that I am in any way inclined to object to your sartorial choices,” Jack said, cracking open an egg, “but you might want to have a robe in case someone comes around.”

As if summoned by his words, there was a knock; Phryne playfully stuck her tongue out at him and retreated to the bedroom to dress while Jack headed to answer the door. He swung it open to find Mac smiling on the other side.

“I don’t suppose you have tea?” she asked. “My cousin and I just arrived and realised we don’t have any.”

Jack looked behind Mac and saw Frankie; Phryne hadn’t mentioned the other doctor was coming, but Jack stepped aside and motioned them both in, the dog close at their heels.

“Fern! We have company!” he called, then turned to the two women. “Take a seat. Would you like a drink?”

“Tea if you don’t mind,” said Frankie. “We really did forget to pack it.”

Jack added more water to the kettle and set it to boil; from behind him he heard Phryne exit the bedroom.

“You’re here early!” she exclaimed.

“My _cousin_ was quite anxious to get on the road,” Mac said, shooting Frankie a rather deliberate look. “We were in such a rush we forgot to pack the tea, and luckily for us Norman here—”

“Norville,” Jack corrected half-heartedly.

“Norville here offered us some when we came begging.”

“Norville here predicted your arrival rather accurately,” Phryne laughed, and Jack blushed.

“Norville may have seen their silhouettes approaching from the window,” he admitted.

Phryne laughed again, coming over to throw leaves into the teapot while Jack laid out enough cups for everyone. In the small space she brushed against him as she moved; a hand laid on his hip, her breasts against his back as she reached past him, fingers grazing when they reached for a cup at the same time. The sensations surprised him, somehow; not sensual but easy. Familiar. Not for the first time, he mentally cursed Margaret Fisher for providing this unwanted glimpse of domesticity; it was not that _this_ arrangement would suit either of them, but the tantalising hint of what they might have been overwhelmed what they were, and dwelling on such thoughts... well, it would likely do more harm than good. 

When the tea was ready, he brought over the tray while Phryne rustled up some biscuits, then brought over the two dining table chairs to sit on as well.

“Thanks for coming, Mac,” he said. “Phryne said you needed to see the body?”

“There’s a lot that needs to be cleared up,” she said. “The report is a mess. It mentioned mouth wounds in passing, without bothering to ascertain the cause. It’s possible she was poisoned.”

“And if so, there are several plants native to the area that might have been used,” Frankie added. “That’s more my area of expertise than Mac’s, so she asked me to come. We ended up driving down instead of waiting for the train.”

Jack felt a nudging at his feet, and glanced down to see Celia’s dog begging for his biscuit. Jack sighed and handed it over, scratching her behind the ears absently. She was exceptionally sweet, and he really did have to find her a home—he wondered idly whether Cec was still taking in every stray he met.

———

They chose to eat a late lunch at the pub, selecting a table in a dark corner where they were unlikely to be overheard. The conversation was casual while they waited for their meals to be delivered, to lend credence to the idea that they were merely travellers who happened to have hit it off. The ruse did allow them to learn a little more about Frankie; Phryne could not quite settle on an impression of the woman. She was definitely beautiful—her dark hair was swept up in a chignon, her strong features pleasant, her appearance feminine but understated—which would explain Mac’s interest that way. It was harder to see the blunt, no-nonsense demeanour Mac had mentioned when she was slow to engage; but she had gotten along with Jack quite well at the dinner party, so perhaps the problem lay with Phryne on that front. A dreary thought, so she dug into her meal and glanced around to be certain they would not be interrupted, turning the discussion towards the case.

“It looks like Celia was killed in the kitchen,” Phryne said. “But the autopsy report made no mention of defensive wounds, which is odd.”

“Perhaps they snuck up on her and the first blow was lethal?” Jack suggested.

Mac shook her head. “It’s certainly possible, but why bother with repeated blows?”

“And either way, that doesn’t explain moving her to the bed—it’s several rooms away and up a set of at least slightly dodgy stairs.”

“All of this is just speculation unless we see the body,” Mac sighed. “Any luck, Jack?”

“I’ve spoken with the commissioner, but we’re stumped on how to get you in there without tipping off the sergeant in charge. The body is being held at the hospital in Tarwin—well, I say hospital. It’s a small building of about a dozen rooms total, with a total of two doctors and three nurses providing all services. An unfamiliar face is going to raise questions.”

“As heir, my mother could have hired an independent doctor?” Phryne suggested. “Though—no, that wouldn’t work either once it came out that Mac is Melbourne’s coroner.”

She looked to Frankie, who raised her hands.

“I’d love to help,” she said, “but it’s been years since I’ve looked at a corpse. I’m not certain I’d do any better than the first bloke.”

“We could tell Rimes to go to hell,” Mac suggested, lighting her cigarette. “I’m still not over the one time I had to work with him.”

“Tempting,” replied Jack. “But I rather like having a job.”

“Hmm. I suppose there’s only one thing for it,” said Phryne.

“Midnight?” Mac grinned, catching her drift, and Jack groaned.

“I don’t want to know how many times you’ve done this, do I?”

“Not many,” Phryne conceded. “We usually drag you into it.”

“Into what?” Frankie asked.

Jack winced.

“They’re suggesting a break-in.”

“Seriously?”

Jack nodded slowly, lips pressed together. Phryne playfully caressed his thigh beneath the table, and he shot her a censuring glare; it was rather undermined by the affectionate smirk lurking in his eyes, though, so she merely raised her hand higher on the thigh and smiled at Frankie.

“If you don’t wish to join us—”

“More choice than you give me,” snorted Mac, and Phryne laughed.

“If you don’t want to join us, I’ll understand entirely. I suspect Norville here will spend the evening reading a book and pretending he has no idea where we could have possibly gone.”

“Should have brought my entire library,” muttered Jack.

“If you get bored, you could read the diary. It’s positively thrilling.”

His expression was unamused, and Phryne laughed and reached over to brush the curl from his forehead.

“It doesn’t even mention the treasure,” she teased. “Now, about this autopsy. If we leave the cottages around nine, we should be in and out before it’s late enough to raise suspicions.”

Mac glanced at her watch—they had a good eight hours or so to prepare—and nodded in agreement.

“Frankie?”

The brunette nodded. “I’ll come.”

“Marvelous!” Phryne said. “That’s settled. Another round?”

The others agreed, and Jack and Frankie stood to get the drinks. When they were gone, Mac placed her now empty pint glass on the table and stared at Phryne.

“Alright,” Mac said. “We have about two minutes before they’re back. What the hell is going on?”

“Hmm?”

“I talked to you 24 hours ago and you were about to strangle the man in his sleep, and now everything is peachy keen and you can’t stop touching him.”

“We had a… disagreement about the case—”

“You mean about your mother.”

Phryne winced. “It’s possible.”

“It’s highly probable, but carry on.”

“That’s it, really. We didn’t see eye to eye regarding a suspect and we argued.”

“And a little argument was enough for you to predict that the sky was falling and everything was awful?”

Phryne huffed and pushed a piece of meat around her plate.

“Everything _was_ awful,” she said. “But unlike my father, Jack is actually sincere when he apologises, and unlike my mother, I know the difference between admitting a mistake and playing a martyr.”

“Ahh,” said Mac. “It is remarkable the difference some maturity makes.”

“Does everybody dislike my mother?” Phryne asked, exasperated.

“I don’t dislike her,” Mac said, “but there is no denying that she’s… impulsive and complicated.”

“So am I.”

“It’s not the same thing at all.”

“Isn’t it?”

Mac waved a hand dismissively. “You know it’s not. But you’re alright now?”

Glancing at the bar, Phryne saw Jack pay for the round.

“You know, I rather think we are,” she said, voice soft. “It’s…”

Jack and Frankie were headed back towards the table, and Phryne fell silent as she watched them. His head was tilted slightly towards Frankie as she spoke, focused on what she had to say, an easy smile on his lips, and it hit Phryne quite suddenly: she was in love with him. With his humour and his kindness and his intelligence, with the cleft in his chin and the broadness of his shoulders, with the man he was—aggravating flaws and all—and the knowledge of who he knew her to be, a truth few had been entrusted with. She _loved_ him.

As far as revelations went, it was far from surprising. But she had always tempered it—she cared for him, she loved him the way she loved the many people who found her way into her family, she wanted to see where they could go, she was happy with him, she missed him. This… this _certainty_ … He arrived at the table before she could finish the thought, passing her her drink and turning a chair to straddle it.

“Fern? Are you quite well?”

She gave herself a small shake.

“Never better, darling,” she smiled.

Every moment of her life told her that she should be vaguely terrified by this discovery.

She really, really wasn’t.

———

When lunch was over, the four of them returned to the holiday cottages—Mac and Frankie had taken a two-bedroom cottage left vacant now that the weekend visitors were gone, though Jack very studiously avoided speculation about whether or not they were using both bedrooms—to rest and prepare. Jack spent a hour on the telephone, updating the the commissioner on the morning’s events and very carefully being vague about how his coroner was gaining access to the body, then contacting his neighbour about the state of his garden.

Phryne watched him during the second call, which dragged on and on, perched on the dining table and biting her lip suggestively. Around the time Mrs. Martin was informing Jack that the neighbour on the other side’s cat had managed to get itself stuck up a tree— “It’s such a shame you weren’t around to help,” she said. “The Fitzgerald boy down the road had to climb up instead.”—Phryne had raised her skirt and was demonstrating exactly how little she was wearing beneath.

“Good god, woman,” Jack muttered, covering the mouthpiece. “You’re incorrigible.”

“What’s that, dear?” Mrs. Martins asked.

“I said that the cat is incorrigible,” Jack lied. “I had to get him down last week.”

Mrs. Martins said something in reply, but seeing as how Phryne had advanced to actual masturbation, Jack really had no idea what it was. He didn’t particularly care, either—Phryne was caressing her breast with one hand, the other between her legs, her eyes closed and her lips open as she began to pant. Making his excuses, he hung up the phone and strode across the room. Phryne paused her movements, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

“Yes, Norville?” she asked, tone utterly innocent as if she hadn’t been moments away from orgasm.

“I was on the telephone.”

“You were, and you looked terribly bored.”

Which he had been.

“Ahh, so this… demonstration was meant for my entertainment?”

“Well, our mutual entertainment at least.”

He dragged a knuckle against her cheek softly, and her eyes fluttered at the touch.

“As charming as I find you—”

“Merely charming?” she simpered, just enough playfulness in her tone to make it endearing.

“Irresistible. Audacious. Ridiculous. Charming and beautiful and utterly, utterly desirable.”

“Better.”

“The point remains, Miss Fisher, I have more telephone calls to make. Feel free to continue if you’re so inclined, but it’s most certainly not for my benefit.”

Her hands dropped to her side and she huffed.

“Very well then, Jack,” she said, her tongue nearly clicking on his name, “I’ll go remedy my problem elsewhere and leave you to get on with your work.”

“Thank you,” Jack said.

She hopped off of the table and smirked.

“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

She sashayed towards the bedroom, and Jack wasn’t certain if it was her natural habit or an attempt to lure him. Both, knowing her. He shook his head and watched her go, then returned to the telephone to place a few more calls. They were not pleasant inquiries—he confirmed that Margaret Fisher was on the passenger list for the _The Empress of Australia_ , as well as the dates the ship had made port on the journey from Jakarta; he should have traced her all the way from London, but Jakarta was when Phryne had left her to return home by airplane and before Celia had willed the estate to Margaret. It was thorough enough. Several other small matters were clarified, and when he was done he glanced at the time; not yet time to start dinner, and Phryne _had_ invited him. Loosening his tie, he headed towards the bedroom.

She was beneath the covers, taking up most of the bed, and half asleep. The dress she had worn was piled on the floor beside the bed, and he could see the thin strap of her nightgown on her shoulder.

“You took ages,” she mumbled as he sat on the bed beside her.

He laughed and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Sorry.”

“Did you get what you needed?”

He hummed in agreement, moving his head to brush his lips against her earlobe. She rolled over, opening her eyes.

“Mmm, darling… as alluring as that is, I’m tired.”

“Ah.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Jack blinked—of all the possible comments, she’d chosen the one he never would have predicted.

“If I did, that would be my problem, not yours," he said softly. "But honestly? I was looking more forward to the nap afterwards.”

“That chair uncomfortable?” she teased, moving to tug on the tails of his shirt.

“Hideously so,” he said, “and I’m still tired from this morning. Not all of us are accustomed to your levels of exercise.”

She laughed softly. “How much sex do you think I have?”

Jack had spent a fair amount of time in the past three years trying very hard to avoid answering that question, and didn’t want to entertain it now.

“More than I do.”

“That’s a given. But it’s probably far less than you would expect, the last few weeks notwithstanding.”

“That’s not your…”

She laughed again and looked at him. “I’ll admit that ravishing you at every possible opportunity has been rather wonderful, but I’m fairly certain I’d die of exhaustion if that was my usual standard.” 

“Oh, thank god,” Jack mumbled, slightly embarrassed.

“You know, if you don’t want to have sex—”

“I do,” Jack replied; her tone was teasing, but he did not want to leave her in any way uncertain of his feelings. “I do. Being with you is… incredible. I’d never regret it. But I have to admit that…” he pressed his lips together, trying to articulate it.

“The pressure to always be on is less than pleasant?”

He nodded. “And that pressure isn’t from you, I just want—”

“To make up for lost time,” she said softly.

“Yes. And… I don’t know. Not be a disappointment, I suppose. Less than what you hoped me to be.”

“I’d tell you that’s ridiculous, but it’s a familiar impulse.”

He looked at her, doubtful, and she shrugged. “I have no desire to change who I am, Jack, but sometimes I think it would be so easy for you to have me on a pedestal, and the inevitable fall... _that_ scares me.”

“We’re a very sorry pair today.”

Phryne laughed and moved to one side of the bed.

“Come nap with me,” she said. “If I’m going to be out late…”

He didn’t need another invitation, and climbed in beside her. He was almost asleep when she spoke again.

“Just so you know, Jack, this doesn’t mean you get out of making love to me entirely.”

He chuckled and drew his arm around her.

“Believe me, Miss Fisher, I have no intention of trying.”


	9. Chapter 9

Phryne woke up just after six o’clock with her arms firmly around Jack, and for the second time that day she had a chance to watch him as he slept. It had been a long few days—preparing for her mother’s arrival, the murder and this ridiculous investigation, playing a doting wife and having most of her usual investigative angles denied to her, the argument the day before. This afternoon kip was practically a necessity, and came with some unexpected benefits, a half-dressed and endearingly sleepy Jack Robinson among them.

Resting her chin on his chest, she called his name.

“It’s time to get up if we want dinner before I head out,” she said.

He gave a disgruntled noise. “Not hungry.”

“You’re a liar,” she laughed, rolling off of him to climb from the bed.

“Not a liar, I just have my priorities straight.”

Still laughing, she bent over to press a kiss against his lips; she could feel her realisation of love thrumming through her, leaving her oddly giddy. _This_ was her life—she had a case, she had a lover, she had a partner, she had an adventure before her—almost lost, but ultimately found stronger than before.

“Get up, Jack,” she said, lacing her fingers with his and tugging.

She felt his muscles tense slightly, and was ready when he tugged back to pull her onto the bed beside him; instead of falling she rolled, coming to straddle his thighs. He looked up at her, smirking, the expression in his eyes playful.

“I win,” she said. “Up we get.”

He dropped his hands to her waist, stroking the skin exposed beneath her nightgown with his thumbs.

“I’m fairly certain that I’ve won, in this case,” he smiled, “but I’ll get up.”

“Thank you. I want to go over the plan while we eat.”

His brow furrowed slightly.

“Since when do you plan?”

“Jack, as difficult as you might find this to believe, I always have a contingency plan in place. I know I can be reckless, but I have no desire to _die_.”

“A trip to the morgue is hardly lethal,” he pointed out.

“Well, not for _me_ at least,” she said, then paused. “But I am rather out of practice, and it’s not just me tonight. I’d feel better if you knew.”

It was an expression of her trust in him; she did not need to say as much, because he understood. He nodded his acknowledgment, and used the slight distraction to roll them both so she was beneath him.

“Miss Fisher!” he exclaimed in mock surprise. “I thought you were getting out of bed?” 

Laughing as she wriggled against him until he released his gentle hold, Phryne did, pulling on her abandoned dress—she’d change into something more appropriate for a break-in after dinner—and watching Jack once more. She had known that he could be playful, had realised it very early in their acquaintance despite his assertions that he was a serious man, but this was an unprecedented level of easiness. One that would not be possible when they returned to Melbourne and their slow and careful wooing.

Her expression must have given her thoughts away, because he grew worried.

“Phryne?”

“It’s nothing, Jack. I was just thinking about the case.”

“No use thinking on an empty stomach,” he said, finally getting out of bed and fixing his rumpled clothes. “Come on.” 

Stopping by the door long enough to let the dog back in—she promptly curled into one of the armchairs, and Phryne rolled her eyes—they began to make dinner, talking about the night’s investigation mingled with information they had already gathered and laughter and instructions on how to prepare the food. They moved with a comfortable synchrony as they dished up and took their seats; the conversation abated as they ate, and Phryne chuckled softly.

“I thought you weren’t hungry?”

Jack didn’t reply, merely raised an eyebrow and took another bite. They were just clearing the plates when there was a knock on the door. Phryne answered it while Jack ran water for the washing up, revealing Mac and Frankie on the other side.

“I spoke with a friend of a friend,” Mac said without preamble as she stepped inside. “She’s matron at the larger hospital in Venus Bay, and we can invoke her name if we get caught. Less cloak and dagger, more behaving like we have every right to be there and hoping nobody asks questions.”

“And here I was looking forward to the subterfuge,” laughed Phryne. “That’s wonderful Mac, thank you.”

With the new cover, there was no need to change her outfit. Phryne instead headed to the bedroom to gather her dagger and lockpick, and select a coat and hat. Coming back out, she said goodbye to Jack.

“And remember, back by midnight,” he said, his tone serious but his eyes amused.

“What happens at midnight?” asked Frankie.

“The car turns back into a pumpkin,” Phryne joked.

“Absolutely. Horses to mice, footmen to lizards, clothes back to rags,” Jack said. “I’ll _also_ be contacting the commissioner to let him know I’m going to pull rank on the investigation if I don’t hear from you. There’s a limit to how much politics I’m willing to tolerate, and we are veering very close to that line.”

———

The hospital was a low, white building near the police station. The morgue was—naturally—in the room furthest from the entrance, but it was late enough that the three women did not cross paths with anyone as they made their way towards it. Popping the lock open was the work of a few seconds, and they all slipped into the room and found where Celia’s body lay.

“I can’t run a proper autopsy,” Mac said, drawing back the covers of the body and beginning her examination. “But I’ll do what I can. Have a look and see if you can find the coroner’s initial notes, make sure nothing was left out of the report.”

Phryne rifled through the paperwork as the two doctors conferred, but came up with no new information. Returning the paperwork to the shelf where she had found it, she turned to watch Mac and Frankie. They were deep in discussion, heads bent together as they examined Celia’s mouth, and as Frankie leaned further forward for a better view she laid a hand on Mac’s back. It was a completely innocuous action, but the ease and familiarity behind it was undeniable. Mac tended to keep her relationships discreet for obvious reasons; the fact had never bothered Phryne before, but the silence in this case left her unsettled. Perhaps it was time for Phryne to have a talk with Frankie, ascertain what, exactly, the situation was.

After a few more minutes, Mac replaced the sheet and looked towards Phryne.

“Anything of use?”

“I’m afraid not. You?”

“Possibly. I’ll tell you about it when we get back,” Mac said, inclining her head towards the door. 

They left the morgue, locking the door behind them, and were almost out the hospital doors when Phryne heard a cough behind them. The paused, then turned almost as one, and found themselves face-to-face with a very firm looking nurse.

“May I help you?” she asked, voice brooking no argument.

“Ahh, yes. Doctor Elizabeth MacMillan,” said Mac, extending a hand. The nurse did not shake it. “Matron Smith from Venus Bay asked me to stop by the hospital to pick some notes up for a patient. Charles MacNair? We were passing through town and thought we’d spare ourselves the journey back, but we couldn’t find anyone to help.”

“It _is_ eleven o’clock at night,” said the nurse. “And I sent any requested files to Venus Bay this afternoon, same as always.”

“Could you just double check for me, please? I was given the impression that it was quite a pressing matter.”

The nurse huffed, but retreated into her office to check the files. She came out a moment later.

“Matron Smith, you said?”

“Yes,” said Mac. “I can telephone her, if you’d like.”

“That’s quite alright. All rquested files were sent off, just as I told you,” she said firmly.

“Well, that’s wonderful news,” Mac said. “I just wish June had told me and saved me the hassle.”

“How strange that she didn’t mention it,” the nurse replied, and Phryne had a feeling she still doubted the cover.

“Well, Mac, if that’s all sorted I would like to get to the hotel sometime tonight. Come along,” Phryne said. “So sorry to bother you, sister.”

And with that she steered Mac by her arm out of the hospital doors and towards the motorcar. Once safely inside, she laughed in relief.

“You’re mad, Mac.”

“Of course I am, darling. We’ve been friends far too long for anything else. Frankie, you alive?”

With a jolt, Phryne realised she hadn’t given much thought to the other woman since they’d left the morgue, and felt ashamed. She turned just in time to catch the brunette’s shrug.

“Heart‘s still beating,” she said.

———

Shortly before midnight Jack heard voices approaching the door, and the dog raised her head long enough to give an apathetic bark before going back to sleep.

“Guard dog you are not,” he said affectionately, standing to put the kettle on.

A moment later the three women spilled through the door, talking excitedly amongst themselves.

“Successful evening?” he asked, measuring leaves for the teapot.

Phryne crossed the room to pat his cheek. “All things considered, I’d say so. There was a tiny little snag with the matron, but Mac soon talked us out of it.”

“That’s good. I’ll get my notes in a moment, but tea first. Mac? Frankie?”

Mac shook her head. “None for me, thank you. I’ll stick to whiskey.”

Laughing, Phryne went to pour herself and Mac both a tumbler of the drink. Frankie stepped towards the kitchen.

“I’ll help with this,” she said softly. As she picked up a cup and saucer, Jack noticed that her hand trembled slightly.

“Are you alright, Dr. Franklin?” he whispered.

She gave a slightly tremulous smile.

“Phryne and Mac are far better under pressure than I am, it would seem.”

“Long experience, one presumes.”

Frankie smiled, glancing towards the two friends. “Do you get used to it then?”

“Absolutely not. You just find yourself being dragged along because the alternative is worse, somehow.”

“Not quite what I was expecting when I took Mac’s spare room, I must admit.”

Jack raised his voice just loud enough to carry. “Believe me, nobody expects those two.” 

“I can hear you, you know,” Phryne remarked dryly. “Bring biscuits when you come over.”

Rolling his eyes, Jack got the tin from the cupboard and laid a handful of biscuits on a plate. Leaving the teapot and cups to Frankie, he headed back towards the armchairs; Mac went to move out of one for him, but he shook his head and stood by the mantelpiece instead. When Frankie came over, she perched on the edge of Mac’s armchair, wrapping both hands around the delicate teacup and blowing to cool it slightly.

“Alright, matron charming aside, how did it go? Any new information about cause of death?”

“Well, the coroner was right that death was caused by the head injury. The hammer they found does seem a probable source, but without access to it I couldn't confirm the match. Half a dozen blows, mostly from above—that might give a rough idea of the height of our suspect, but Phryne mentioned that Celia appeared to have been seated at the kitchen table and is therefore less useful.”

“The hammer had no prints,” Phryne added.

Mac nodded. “No, and if there was physical evidence of the attacker not noted in the report, it’s been washed away by now.”

“Alright. Any thoughts on the body being moved?”

“Celia was quite slight, but a dead weight is still a dead weight. It’s an odd choice no matter how I look at it.”

“And no signs that the victim fought back?”

“None.”

“There was irritation in Miss Arden’s mouth,” Frankie offered, looking up from her teacup. “Which could be any number of causes, and we can’t narrow it much further with just a cursory examination of the body. There are a number of native plants that can cause tissue irritation as well as weakness or paralysis, explaining the lack of defensive wounds, and I noticed this afternoon that there’s oleander in quite a few gardens around here which would do the same. Or it could be another source entirely.”

“So we’re no further ahead?” Jack asked.

“Well, now we know that it was likely premeditated and a possible reason there were no defensive wounds,” Phryne pointed out. “It would still take some strength to carry the body upstairs, but it’s not necessarily the overpowering we were initially imagining.”

“We still don’t know who or why, though. We’ll have to go back to Tullaree in the morning, search it again.”

Phryne raised her glass in agreement. “And talk to the tenants—I don’t trust Alfie and his new spade.”

Mac drained her whiskey and stood. “In that case, I’ll head to bed and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Frankie stood as well, thanking Jack for the tea and heading for the door.

“Good night, Mac, Dr. Franklin,” Jack said. “Thank you for your help.”

Placing her hat on her head, Mac looked at him and Phryne.

“Any time. Life was far too boring when Phryne was abroad.”

Jack felt himself smile sadly out of reflex, and Phryne huffed a small laugh.

“I suspect Jack prefers the term ‘quiet’,” she said.

“I _prefer_ your particular brand of chaos, Miss Fisher. Even if my greying hair does not.”

“And rightfully so,” she agreed. “Night Mac, Frankie!”

When the doctors had left, Phryne ate another biscuit then looked at Jack with a sly smile on her face.

“You know, Jack,” she said, laying her empty tumbler on the table and coming to wrap her arms around his neck, “me and my particular brand of chaos are heading to bed.”

“Is that so, Miss Fisher?” he asked, wrapping his arms around her waist in response. “Because I’m not tired at all.”

She winked at him. “Neither am I. So come on.”

———

In the morning, Jack was making breakfast and Phryne was browsing Captain Sawyer’s diary again when Mac and Frankie stopped by to see if their presence at Tullaree would be helpful.

“Very much so,” said Phryne. “If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“Oh, it probably is,” said Frankie flippantly, “but we’ll come either way. Do you need help with breakfast, Jack?”

Jack nodded and Frankie went to help him; Phryne watched her go, then turned to Mac.

“Does Frankie…” Phryne trailed off, uncertain precisely what she meant to say. “I’m not certain that I’ve made a good impression on her.”

“I wasn’t aware you felt the need to,” Mac said dryly.

“Mac, if she is a friend of yours, then she is a friend of mine. But I get the impression that she dislikes me, and I would hate to put you in the middle of that.”

Mac clearly didn’t believe her, raising one very articulate eyebrow. Phryne bit her lip and opted for honesty.

“Sometimes I realise exactly how much happened while I was away. And I know that you are always… quiet about your romantic life, but…”

Mac rolled her eyes. “I’m ‘quiet’ about my romantic life because my lovers request discretion, and they never seem to get to a point where introducing them to you is feasible—”

“That’s the point though!” Phryne hissed; Jack and Frankie were still cooking. “Frankie lives with you—”

“She rents a room from me, Phryne. And we’re not in a romantic relationship.”

“What?”

“You’re usually better at this game,” Mac said. “Yes, she’s attractive. And clever, and surprisingly funny. And if she’s reserved around you, it’s not personal. Even if you are terrifying. She wouldn’t have offered to come down with me if she disliked you.”

“Yes, well, that’s good then,” Phryne said quickly, trying not to blush. “But are you two really…?”

“Phryne, she _just_ moved to Melbourne.”

“You’ve known her for a year, though.”

“Yes. And you of all people know how difficult it can be to… maintain a relationship over long distances, even if the feelings were already there,” Mac said, giving a knowing nod towards Jack. “Which they weren’t. Can we end this conversation now? What’s the book?”

Phryne glanced down and realised the diary was still in her hands. “Oh, the local historian thought I’d be interested. It’s an old diary from the previous owner of Tullaree’s maritime career.”

“Anything good?”

“Thrilling,” Phryne said, “but nothing of use to the investigation. And far less about the treasure than he implied.”

“That might be because he was far too busy flirting with you to be accurate,” Jack teased, catching the tail end of the conversation as he brought over a plate of drop scones; Phryne would have found the amusement galling in another lover, but not him. She flashed him a pleased grin, and he rolled his eyes before turning to Mac. “He sought her out at the pub to give it to her the other day, then beat a hasty retreat when I returned to the table. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that if he took liberties, Fern is the one to be worried about.”

“Demure, remember?” Phryne reminded him, popping one of the scones in her mouth.

Mac laughed. “You’ve been demure?”

“Theoretically,” said Jack.

Phryne shrugged. “Well, I can only do so much.”


	10. Chapter 10

The four of them drove to Tullaree together, Celia’s dog tagging along, and waded through the swampland once more. A few times Frankie stopped to examine one plant or another, but shook her head.

“If I knew what the poison was, I’d be more help,” she said regretfully. “It could be one of any number of things growing here.”

“Perhaps there will be more evidence at the house,” Phryne suggested, swatting at some midges. “There are fewer insects there, at least.”

Eventually they arrived at the bottom of the hill and paused.

“There was somebody sneaking around here the other day,” Phryne said quietly. “I don’t suppose either of you thought to bring a gun?”

“There are times, Phryne, when I seriously question my life choices,” said Mac with a shake of her head. “No, I did not bring a gun to what was _supposed_ to be a simple autopsy.”

“It was worth asking at least,” Phryne said. “It will be for the best if you and Frankie stay with either Jack or me. Just in case.”

“Are we splitting up then?” Jack asked.

“If Frankie wants to look for signs of our poison, it makes sense for her to head to the kitchen—it’s the likeliest place of ingestion. And you said there was more correspondence you didn’t get through in the conservatory?”

“Yes, on the table by the far right window.”

“Well, that settles it,” said Mac. “I have a rather pressing matter to address with Jack, so I’ll join him sifting through letters and you can explore the kitchen with Frankie.”

The hesitance that Phryne felt at this proclamation was rather unlike her, so she took a deep breath and ignored it.

“Come along then, Dr. Franklin,” she said, setting off to climb the small hill. “There’s a door directly to the kitchens around the side. We’ll join Mac and Jack when we’re done there.”

Frankie followed behind, and within a few minutes they were through the door and into the kitchens. The cup of tea Phryne had noticed on Monday was still there, meaning that if the police had returned to Tullaree—which she sincerely doubted—that had not noticed it or thought to take it in for testing.

“Very well then, Dr. Franklin, what are we looking for?”

“I’ve told you before that you’re welcome to call me Frankie,” the doctor chided softly. “And, I suppose, we are looking for the same thing you would look for in Melbourne—plants or powders or liquids that are not immediately identifiable? If it is a plant, dried leaves might be a place to start. Dry it out and mix it in, and nobody looks that closely. Seasonings or tea, maybe?”

Phryne nodded towards the teacup she’d seen previously. “The tea seems like a good place to start.”

“Have you seen the tin?”

Phryne was already opening the cupboards, and on the third one found a canister of tea. She offered it to Frankie, who removed the lid and peered inside, moving the canister back and forth to shift the leaves.

“I’d be better off if I could sift through this properly,” she said.

Thinking for a moment, Phryne removed a large envelope—the sort usually used for large pieces of evidence—from her handbag and placed it on the table.

“Would this help?” she asked. “Once you’ve had a look it will be easy to return it to the cannister. Just don’t tell Jack that I’m actually minding the evidence. He’d start having expectations.”

“That’s clever,” said Frankie, tipping the contents of the canister out slowly. Grabbing a spoon from the side—“given the wounds in Celia Arden’s mouth, I’m not certain touching it directly is a good idea,” she said—she began sifting through the pile. “Ah!”

Phryne peered closer, and noticed that some of the leaves weren’t right—finely chopped and a dark green, they wouldn’t have be noticeable as someone absent-mindedly scooped some into a teapot.

“Do you have a smaller envelope?” Frankie asked; faced with a mystery requiring her expertise, she had become focused and firm. “I can’t identify these on sight—too small—and I’m not going to brew a cuppa and see if I can identify by taste. But I might be able to come up with answers.”

Phryne produced another envelope, and Frankie scooped a bit into it. Then they replaced the rest in the canister and continued to look around the kitchen, finding nothing else.

“Time to rejoin Mac and Jack?” Frankie asked.

“Let’s just hope they’ve found something as well.”

———

“How is she?” Mac asked quietly as Phryne and Frankie headed around the back of the house.

Jack didn’t reply for a moment, watching them go; he felt Mac turn to look at him.

“Jack?”

“She seems…” he struggled to articulate it. “She’s Phryne. Bigger than life and dragging me along with her; it’s…”

“Right?” Mac offered.

“It’s wonderful,” he said, smiling at the memory. Then he sighed; if he had to admit this to anyone, Mac was it, but he was still reluctant. It needed to be said though. “It really is wonderful, but... every once in awhile she just seems tired and I wonder if this is a good idea, or whether it’s another obligation to balance. If this—being with me—is what she really wants, and whether it’s good for her if it is. Her mother is—” 

“Childish? Impatient? Demanding?” Mac supplied. “She’s always been that way—she tried, when they were children, but even then she couldn't change her fundamental nature—and whatever noble worries you’re harbouring that you are making this harder for Phryne are ridiculous. I know you two had an argument—”

“I rather casually suggested that we should consider Margaret a suspect,” he admitted.

“Yes, Phryne said.”

“And then I threw the out fact she could accuse me of corruption, but refused to contemplate her mother being involved.”

Mac let out a low whistle. “No wonder she was angry with you.”

“She told you that too, huh?”

“We’ve been friends for a long time. She didn’t need to. But the point remains, Jack, that as upset as she was, as foolish as you were… it didn’t break you. She is still willing to lean on you, in her own Phryne way. When it comes to dealing with her family, that is no small thing.”

Jack sighed, knowing the doctor was right, but still unable to forget his concerns completely.“Thank you, Mac.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said bluntly. “You love her as well as I do, and with her mother making demands once more, she’ll need it. And though I am loath to admit such a thing, I’m rather fond of you too.”

Jack chuckled. “I’ll pretend I never heard it,” he said. “Shall we head into the house?”

“Please,” said Mac dryly. “I am practically choking on the sentimentality.”

The walked up the hill and headed to the conservatory; the dog trotted ahead, no doubt having made the journey many times before, and settled onto a pile of rags in the corner of the room when they arrived.

“The letters I didn’t get through are over here,” Jack said. Mac had paused to look at the artwork. “There are quite a few with Margaret Fisher, according to Phryne. And a red-haired woman we haven’t identified.”

Mac had picked up a portrait of the latter, examining it closely. “Has anyone asked Margaret about her?”

“Uh, no. Not as far as I know, at least.”

“Normally I’d say that a portrait of a woman from forty years ago isn’t likely to be relevant, but…”

“This whole investigation feels like trudging through the past,” Jack agreed.

“Or some fairy tale version of it, at least,” said Mac. “Buried treasure and crumbling castles.”

“I suspect our murderer was a little more earth-bound than an evil fairy though.”

“They usually are.”

They moved to the table where the correspondence was stacked, and Jack handed over half the envelopes. They read in silence, except for Mac’s occasional derisive snort, and came up with very little. They were almost ready to join Phryne and Frankie in the kitchen when Jack noticed that one of the drawers of the desk was shallower on the inside than it appeared from the out. He emptied out the papers, then looked to Mac.

“I don’t suppose you have a dagger on you?” he asked mildly.

“I really don’t know if you or Phryne are worse,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Hold on.”

She dug through Celia’s art supplies while Jack looked for a letter opener, Mac striking success first.

“Palette knife,” she said, holding the object up.

Jack took it with a murmured thank you, and used it to wedge the false bottom off the drawer. Underneath was a small book—the same diary of Captain Sawyer that Phryne had been reading—and some folded papers; one was a map, the other a half-written letter to Margaret Fisher dated a week before Celia had died.

“ _Maggie_ ,” Jack read. “ _After years of searching, it seems I have found some answers at least. Proof that the treasure is real, and buried in a steel vault near this very house._ Oh, not this again.”

“I take it you’ve been subjected to the stories?”

“Repeatedly. There’s no evidence it exists, as far as I can tell, but half the people involved in this case seem obsessed.”

“It would provide a powerful motive,” Phryne interjected, and they turned to see her entering the room holding up an envelope. “And we think we’ve found the source of Celia’s potential paralysis.”

“Miss Fisher.”

“Jack.”

Her barely suppressed smirk told him she’d overheard his complaints, and was most likely contemplating how best to tease him with it; it didn’t take her long.

“Surely the letter you hold in your hands is evidence of the treasure?”

Jack gestured to the room. “Celia Arden was fixated on her youth and clearly in no fit state to be making decisions. There is no evidence that this is anything more than the ramblings of a lonely woman.”

Phryne shook her head. “Honestly, Jack, where is your sense of adventure?”

He hoped his look was reprimanding, though he expected it was far closer to amused than he would have liked. “I must have forgotten to pack it.”

———

When they were satisfied they would get nothing else from Tullaree, the group replaced the papers to the original places on the off-chance the police did decide to investigate, then returned to the motorcar and headed towards the Bartons’ cottage. 

“What’s our reasoning?” Jack asked. “Because I’m fairly certain ‘We find you incredibly suspicious so answer our questions’ isn’t actually going to work.”

“It might,” Phryne replied, just to argue. “I can be _very_ persuasive, Jack.”

“I had never noticed,” he replied.

“If this is the way you two are going to behave, I’d rather walk back into town,” said Mac in disgust. “Squabbling like an old married couple is a dedication to the cover that my stomach just won’t tolerate.”

Phryne and Jack shared a smirk and continued the contrived bickering until they arrived at the cottage, as an amusement. They had just decided it was as good a cover as any—Phryne pretending that they were arguing and she was hoping for a ride back into town with the Bartons—when they arrived. But as Phryne opened the car door, ready to tear off in a huff, they heard the sound of shouting. Alfie, mostly, with the occasional loud response from Edith. Phryne froze; suddenly their argument did not seem quite so amusing.

“Damnit,” Jack muttered. “Can you pass me my warrant card?”

Phryne pulled it from its place beneath the seat and handed it over, then grabbed her own gun.

“Stay here,” Jack said, voice low.

“Fat chance.”

“Phryne…”

“Would you let Hugh go into a situation like this without backup?” she asked pointedly, raising one eyebrow.

He shook his head.

“Precisely. And since I don’t see any constables around…”

“Stay close then.”

Despite the circumstances, Phryne felt herself smile. “I wouldn’t dream of doing it any other way.”

Then she swung open the car door and headed towards the cottage, moving carefully with her gun in hand. She was halfway across the front garden, Jack beside her, when the door swung open to reveal Edith, her face streaked with tears. Phryne instinctively dropped her gun, obscuring it, and Jack slipped his warrant card into his pocket.

“Mr. and Mrs. Rogers!” she called out, putting on a brave face. “Whatever are you doing back here?”

“We went back up to Tullaree,” Phryne said. “Is everything alright here?”

“Oh yes,” Edith smiled. “I hope we didn’t frighten you with the shouting—I saw a mouse in the pantry and Alfie was trying to catch it. Made quite the commotion. He’s just gone out the back to get rid of it.”

Phryne glanced towards Jack; his face was impassive to the untrained eye, but she could see the internal struggle and the moment he drew the same unpleasant conclusion she had—without Edith willing to say something, nothing could be gained but a blown cover if they pushed the issue. Didn’t mean either of them had to be happy about it.

“I have a terrible fear of spiders,” said Phryne, hoping to strike up a conversation.”Norville here thinks it’s ridiculous, but…”

“A fear of spiders is just common sense,” said Edith firmly, then nodded towards the car. “Who are your guests?”

“Fellow guests at the holiday cottage,” Phryne lied easily. “That’s why we went back up to the house. It’s such a shame, the condition it’s in.”

“Yes, well…” Edith said, flustered. She glanced over her shoulder, Phryne presumed in search of her husband.

“You were looking to buy it, weren’t you?” Phryne continued. “Is Alfie handy? I imagine it would be a lot of work to get the house back into good nick.”

Edith shook her head, stepping off the stoop and coming towards them. “Alfie wanted to buy it for the land. Even if we coulda fixed it up, it was too fine a place for us. Didn’t matter though; last I heard, Celia wasn’t selling after all.”

“She went back on her word?” Jack asked, and Phryne shot him a censuring glare.

Edith nodded. “The woman was mad. We had it all arranged, then one day Alfie shows up at her door and she greets him with a shotgun. Threatened to shoot him if he came by again.”

“Oh, how dreadful!” Phryne gasped dramatically. “When was this?”

“Coupla weeks back now. He reckoned she just needed some time to cool off. Anyway, Alfie ain’t gonna like me talking ‘bout it. He had his heart real set on it. Perhaps he’ll have better luck with the new owners.”

“I hope you do,” said Phryne. “We’d best be heading back into town. You sure you’re all sorted with your mouse problem?”

“We’ll be fine,” Edith said, far too brightly. “Real nice to see you again. Drive safe.”

With nothing else they could do, Phryne and Jack returned to the car and headed into town.

———

It was late afternoon by the time they arrived back in town, and they stopped at the little shop to pick up ingredients for dinner. Jack had just selected a loaf of bread when he saw Eamon Holloway approaching, eyes on Phryne.

“Mrs. Rogers!” exclaimed the man. “Are you enjoying the diary?”

Jack suspected he was far more interested in flirting with her than in her opinions of the book, but Phryne kept the conversation steered in neutral waters while still being bright and charming. Leaving her to it, Jack finished the shopping and paid, meeting Mac and Frankie just outside the shop. 

“That’s demure?” Mac asked with a grin, glancing back into the shop where Phryne was still talking animatedly.

“So she says,” Jack replied, and Frankie snorted. 

It took almost ten minutes before Phryne’s conversation ended, and when it did she came out and took Jack’s arm.

“You may as well have dinner with us,” Phryne told Mac and Frankie as they all headed towards the parked motor car. “We can go over what we’ve discovered so far, and hopefully Frankie can identify the leaves we found in the tea?”

“We’ll get changed,” Mac said, gesturing to the swamp mud that clung to them, “and be around in about an hour?”

Using the hour to bathe and change themselves, Jack began to prepare dinner while Phryne poured four glasses of whiskey and then laid the table before placing a telephone call to Melbourne—she intended to ask her mother if she knew the identity of the red-haired woman in Celia’s paintings, but Margaret was out for dinner. Then she came into the small kitchen area, wrapping her arms around Jack’s waist from behind.

“Smells delicious.”

“Not your usual dinner party fare, but it will do.”

“The only problem is that now I know you can cook,” teased Phryne, “so the next time Mr. Butler requests the day off I’ll require your services instead.”

“Will you pay me?”

She scraped her teeth across his trapezius, and even through shirt and waistcoat the sensation made him shiver.

“I’m sure we can arrange compensation of some description.”

Jack was contemplating whether he could leave the soup to simmer while he pressed her against the counter and had their mutual way when there was a knock on the door; she dropped her hands and moved to answer it, and Jack recited footy results in his head until his body got the message. It was Mac and Frankie, and Frankie moved towards Jack.

“Need any help?” she offered.

“Ah, if you don’t mind slicing the bread,” Jack said. “Thank you. Did you have a chance to look at the leaves?”

“We’re fairly certain it’s oleander. Not the poison I would have chosen—too messy, possibly too easy to detect, and it occurs to me that this is probably not the thing to say to a police officer—”

Jack laughed. “It probably wouldn’t even be the most incriminating thing I’ve heard today.”

“The point is, its use as a decorative shrubbery means it is readily available with no history of purchase or incriminating access. So it is a clever choice in that respect.”

“It is much easier when murderers think that the rare poison only they have access to will escape detection,” Jack said dryly.

“Except for the times it does,” Phryne added from where she and Mac sat at the kitchen table.

“Luckily for us and unfortunately for them, we have you on our side. I don’t think you’ve ever met a poison you couldn’t suss out. I seem to recall you finding a vial of polonium in the dark.”

Frankie laughed. “I imagine the fact that polonium is phosphorescent helped in that respect.”

“Possibly,” Jack conceded, bringing the soup pot to the table and beginning to dish out. “But there were plenty of distractions at the time.”

“The polonium was the least interesting thing that night,” Phryne said, giving him a small, knowing smile at the memory.

“Yes, I imagine the glowing priest _was_ more to your interests.”

Her small smile turned cheeky. “I was talking about the prince.”

“Ahh, yes. He was also quite impressive.”

“I… I can’t tell if you two are being serious or if you’re making this up,” said Frankie doubtfully.

Mac laughed, reaching for a slice of bread. “Entirely true, I’m afraid. I was the coroner on the case.”

The meal was taken up with recollections of cases they had worked together in the past—and quite often Phryne’s more ridiculous feats that had helped to solve them—and passed quickly. Moving to sit near the fire afterward—Phryne and Frankie in the arm chairs, Mac in one of the chairs from the dining table, Jack leaning on the arm of Phryne’s chair—they turned their attentions back to Celia Arden’s death.

“So she was poisoned by the tea in the kitchen, and then hit over the head. Someone then moved her upstairs for reasons that are unclear,” Phryne summarised. “She was discovered by a police officer doing a welfare check, called in by an anonymous caller.”

“Do you have any idea who the caller was?” asked Frankie.

“No. The report doesn’t note any description, so we don’t even know if it was a man or woman.”

“We don’t have a clear motive for murder,” Jack said. “A few possibilities but nothing that stands out. She reportedly changed her mind about selling the estate to the Bartons, and Alfie Barton has a temper.”

“Criminal record?” asked Mac.

“One of the many things I can’t actually look up. I’m waiting to make contact with the commissioner again.”

Phryne swirled her whiskey and sighed. “He just bought a new spade, even though we saw one at the house the day before.”

“Odd, but not indicative of anything by itself,” Jack pointed out. “We know Celia changed her named heir recently—”

“The ‘named heir’ only landed in Melbourne the day Celia’s body was discovered,” Phryne interjected.

“And some people might find that suspicious. Somebody telephones demanding a welfare check on Celia on the exact day the new heir arrives in the country?”

“What about the grandnephew that was disinherited? He’s up and disappeared, and he had just as much reason as my mother.”

“The grandnephew is out of town, but should be back tomorrow, according to the neighbour. We’ll speak with him then, and he’s on the list of suspects. We still have to discuss Margaret Fisher.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Jack!” Phryne said, exasperated. “She is a suspect. I struggle to see how she could do it—she was not in the country, she doesn’t know the grandnephew to concoct some sort of conspiracy, and I know full well she didn’t hire someone because she’s broke. Again. Blew right through what she inherited after my father’s death. I’ve been paying her expenses, and the money is all accounted for. But she’s a suspect.”

Jack felt his own irritation rise at her declaration; Phryne was once more covering for her impetuous parents at a cost to herself. And though it was just money—quite a bit of money, he suspected, but just money—he couldn’t help but remember what had happened last time her parents had needed her to run their lives; he bit his tongue to keep from saying so. Mac had no such reservations.

“Tell me you’re joking,” she said.

“I’m not interested in a lecture, Mac,” Phryne said firmly, taking a pointed sip of her whiskey before continuing. “There is also the possibility that the suspect was after the treasure. Celia seemed quite certain she had found it, and if she talked about it openly….”

“Do we really believe that there’s a buried treasure?” Jack asked.

“I don’t see why there wouldn’t be—”

“You said yourself that even the captain’s diary doesn’t mention it. The only evidence is Celia’s letters, and by all accounts she wasn’t in her right mind.”

“True,” conceded Phryne. “Even if there is no treasure, the rumour of it might be enough.”

“Well, that just leaves half of Victoria as suspects, in that case.”

They continued to discuss the investigation for another hour, until they had exhausted every angle and Mac and Frankie were ready to retire. Jack began to do the dinner cleanup while Phryne walked them to the door—he caught a whispered exchange between Mac and Phryne, neither of them completely happy, but could not make out the words. When the two doctors were gone, Phryne came to perch on the counter and watch Jack do the washing up.

“Do you think I’m wrong?” she asked, voice breezy.

“About your mother?”

“Mhmm. And the money.”

“I think that, as your friend, Mac has different loyalties than you do,” he said, aiming for diplomatic.

“And yours?” she asked.

“Phryne, my loyalties are always with you and your happiness. And part of that is knowing that you make your own choices.”

She laughed, then reached over to brush an errant curl from his forehead. “ _That_ was a very good answer, Jack Robinson.”


	11. Chapter 11

Thursday morning—after a breakfast that was fast becoming a familiar routine, a fact Phryne was careful not to examine; it was a freedom that would not be extended in Melbourne, where slow caution was their approach—Jack and Phryne headed into Tarwin to speak with Michael Arden. To Phryne’s slight surprise, a small, middle-aged man opened the door of his home; she had half-expected him to be the killer, long-fled.

“Michael Arden?” she asked.

He pushed his spectacles up his nose and looked at them both.

“Yes. And you are?”

“I’m Fern Rogers, and this is my husband Norville. We wanted to talk to you about your aunt? Celia Arden?”

“She’s dead,” he said bluntly. “Cops have already been by to tell me.”

Well, no love lost there then. A different approach. She felt Jack’s hand on the small of her back.

“That’s why we’ve come to speak with you, actually,” he said, voice smooth. “Fern here grew up hearing stories of Tullaree, and now that we’re married… well, we thought we’d see it for ourselves. And, in truth, had a vain hope that we could buy it. When we arrived and learnt that Celia had passed away…it sounds ghoulish, I know, but it felt like it was meant to be. We thought perhaps…”

“You’re mad, both of ya,” he said. “I’d sell it to you for a pittance—it ain’t worth a thing—but I’m not the heir to the estate. She willed it to some childhood friend or something. Saves me the hassle, at least; until she changed her will, I thought I’d never be shot of it.”

“But it’s such a fine old place,” Phryne pressed, hoping to determine whether Michael knew of the Bartons’ plans to purchase it. “Surely other people would be interested?”

“I can’t imagine why they would,” he said. “Really, if there is nothing else, I’ve just gotten home from a business trip and really must unpack.”

“Very sorry to have kept you,” Jack said. “Have a good day.”

Michael shut the door, and Jack took Phryne’s arm as he led her away.

“He seems sincere,” he said.

Phryne nodded. 

“As far as he knew, there was no profit in the property and he didn’t stand to lose anything by being disinherited,” she agreed. “It’s always possible he’s a very good liar, but I think we can rule him out for now.”

“Leaving us with the Bartons and treasure hunters.”

“And my mother.” 

“And your mother, who is highly improbable given she had no money to arrange it and was on a ship or in your sight in the days leading up to the murder.” 

“I am so glad you’re finally talking sense,” Phryne said, smiling warmly at him so he knew she was teasing. “So what do we do next? We can’t bring Alfie in for questioning, and he’s hardly going to talk to Fern and Norville. But I am very curious about why he was so fixated on purchasing the property.”

Jack seemed to consider it for a moment, then flashed her a conspiratorial look.

“How do you feel about making Sergeant Rimes’ life a living hell?”

Phryne squeezed his bicep and laughed lightly. “Oh darling, you know me so well.” 

———

Tarwin Police Station was fastidiously neat—probably, Jack thought cynically, because they rarely did actual police work—and the constable manning the desk looked bored out of his mind; he didn’t even bother to look up when Jack and Phryne entered.

“Constable,” Jack said in a tone that made the man jump. “I’d like to speak with your sergeant.”

“And who may you be?” asked the constable, giving them both a derisive eye. “Sergeant Rimes is a very busy man.”

Jack removed the warrant card from his pocket and flashed it, ignoring the tiny part of him that still believed in following orders; it needed to be done.

“Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. I’ve been sent by Russell Street to investigate the murder of Celia Arden.” 

The speed with which the man snapped to attention was almost comical.

“Yes, sir.”

The constable retreated to the sergeant’s office, and a moment later Rimes emerged. If there was any natural justice in the world, Adrian Rimes’ appearance would have been as slimy as his nature. There was not—he was a handsome man, with a broad smile and broader shoulders.

“Jack.”

“Adrian,” Jack said levelly.

“What’s this I hear about you taking over my case? And who’s the sheila?” Rimes’ voice was jovial, charming, but Jack knew the man behind it; he was rather perversely curious to see Phryne’s reaction to him.

“‘ The sheila’,” Phryne said, voice dryly amused, “is Miss Phryne Fisher.”

She didn’t extend her hand in greeting, Jack noticed, or offer her card; not impressed then.

“Any relation to the heir Margaret Fisher?”

“My mother,” Phryne said coolly. “I’m also a private detective.”

“Oh, Jack. You do keep the strangest company, but this might just take the proverbial cake. Wherever did you find her?”

And Jack had known that Rimes was a fool, but he hadn’t imagined he’d be that big a one. He resisted the urge to rock back on his heels to better enjoy the show. Phryne gave Rimes the sort of smile that made clever men run.

“It is remarkable what decent police work can turn up,” Phryne said. “Not that I imagine you have much experience with that.”

“Miss Fisher…” Jack warned, with just enough sincerity to have plausible deniability if Rimes complained; he trusted that she’d realise it was not a real reprimand.

“Nevermind, inspector. My client—”

“Your client?” asked Rimes scornfully.

“My client has made it abundantly clear to the Victorian Constabulary that this investigation is unsatisfactory,” Phryne said, her voice firm. “Thankfully they have heard our complaints and taken steps to remedy the situation.”

Rimes scoffed and looked to Jack, clearly thinking it was some sort of joke. Jack met his eyes.

“I want your case files and Alfie Barton brought in for questioning.”

“You can’t—”

Jack raised a hand to silence him. “ _Now_ , sergeant. We’ll set up in the interview room; please send your constable in with the files.”

Striding off, Phryne’s quick footsteps keeping her level with him, Jack entered the interview room; it was small—about half the size of the one at City South—and showed little evidence of use.

“That went well,” he muttered sarcastically, already dreading whatever petulant retaliation Rimes would inflict.

She looked at him, seemingly surprised. “Well, they can’t all be as diligent as you are, Jack.”

He was saved from replying with more than an unamused look by the constable bringing in a slim folder.

“The case file, sir.”

Jack took the file, looking at it deliberately.

“It seems rather light, all things considered,” he remarked, flipping it open. “There isn’t even an autopsy report in here. I want the rest of it.”

“That’s all there was, sir.”

“Then _find_ the rest of it, constable. Quickly.”

The constable scrambled to do so, leaving Phryne and Jack to wait without so much as a cup of tea.

“So much for small town hospitality,” Phryne said, reading what they had of the case file over Jack’s shoulder. Nothing new.

“Well, they can’t all be as well-mannered as City South.”

She gave him a tiny smile, her hand on his shoulder as she continued to read. “They are working from a handicap.”

“Careful,” warned Jack, “or I’ll begin to think you like me.”

“I meant Hugh, Jack,” she laughed. “But I think you’ll find I am _excessively_ fond of you.”

Nearly half an hour later and with no sign of the rest of the file, Rimes returned with Alfie Barton.

“Please, take a seat Mr. Barton,” Jack said mildly, pretending to be absorbed in the papers before him. “We have a few questions for you.”

Alfie looked at them both.

“You’re _cops_?”

“I am,” Jack said. “Miss Fisher is here on behalf of Celia Arden’s heir.”

Phryne flashed Alfie a slightly predatory grin. “My client will be very interested to hear that you wished to purchase Tullaree. It’s such a peculiar choice; the land is nearly worthless without redigging the drainage, and I don’t think you have that kind of money. If you simply wanted to own your home, you could have asked Celia to sell you only that corner of the land. Which makes me suspect that you know something we do not. Yet.”

Alfie crossed his arms, and placed his feet on the table in a display of arrogance. Jack saw it at the same time Phryne did.

“You’re all talk, but you ain’t got proof,” scoffed Alfie.

“Here’s the thing, Alfie,” Phryne said, trailing one finger across the boot. “I know you were at Tullaree recently—I recognise the tread of your boot; it was left as an imprint of mud in the kitchen. And I know you recently purchased a new spade. Which makes _me_ think of the Tullaree Treasure.”

“Bunch of nonsense,” Alfie bluffed.

“I don’t think it was, though. I think that you got wind that Celia had found proof of the treasure—”

“Ha!” scoffed Alfie. “I uncovered the proof first. But then she found out and refused to sell the land to me like she promised.”

“So you killed her for it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“So it’s simply coincidence that she was poisoned by oleander, which grows in your garden.”

“It’s in half the gardens in the area,” argued Alfie. “You ain’t gonna pin it on me with that.” 

“Half the gardens in the area don’t belong to a man with a clear motive,” said Phryne.

“I didn’t kill her!”

“Why should we believe you? You’ve been skulking around the house since her death. You clearly stand to profit from it. You had access to the poison.”

“I was also out of town when she was killed. Sergeant Rimes already spoke with me and confirmed my alibi.”

“Where were you?” Jack asked, leaning forward.

“In Bairnsdale, visiting me sick mum all week; by the time I came home the police had found the old lady’s body.”

“We’ll need the details of where you stayed,” said Jack.

Alfie gave them a name and telephone number.

“It all checks out, but feel free,” he said.

Phryne took the piece of paper and slipped from the room, returning only a few minutes later and gave a small shake of her head.

“See?” Alfie said. “I’m innocent. I ought to file a complaint for harassment.”

“You’re free to go, Mr. Barton,” Jack said.

“And I highly recommend that you cease your treasure hunt,” Phryne added. “My client will press charges if you continue.”

Alfie stood, gathering his hat, and left the interview room. Jack and Phryne followed, and found Rimes waiting for them.

“You didn’t arrest him?” Rimes asked, the false innocence practically dripping off his words.

“You didn’t think to mention that the man’s alibi checks out?” Jack asked, voice coolly furious.

“It was in the file,” Rimes said.

“The file that was shamefully incomplete, you mean?”

“Was it?” Rimes asked. “How very odd. That is the trouble with taking someone else’s case, I suppose: you don’t know the whole story.”

It was exactly the petty, petulant behaviour that had gotten Rimes assigned out here in the first place; Jack wondered whether he should call him out on it, and decided that was exactly what Rimes was hoping for.

“I want the complete file by the time I come back here tomorrow morning,” Jack said. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem, sergeant?”

———

Frustrated by the lack of support from Adrian Rimes, Phryne and Jack returned to the cottage.

“I better call the commissioner,” Jack said in resignation. “Presuming Rimes hasn’t already.”

“He’ll understand,” Phryne said confidently. “You made a judgment call based on the information you had. If he wasn’t so worried about stepping on delicate toes, the pretense wouldn’t have been needed to begin with. And you were _magnificent_.”

“Magnificent? Really, Miss Fisher?” Jack said, giving her a chastising look.

Phryne laughed.

“Absolutely,” she replied, taking a step closer to finger his tie. He _had_ been; deliciously assertive, confident, the full force of his authority behind him—it was a side of him she did not get to see often enough. She kissed his cheek. “You are a damned good cop, Jack Robinson. And if that petty little weasel wants to make life difficult for you, he can just try. Nobody will believe him anyway.”

He gave a weak smile. “As much as I appreciate your faith in me, it was still a dead end.”

“Yes, but now we can gain access to the actual police investigation.”

“Presuming I’m not removed from it entirely.”

She arched an eyebrow. “That’s hardly stopped you in the past. But if it does, I have been formally hired by the heir to the estate—she doesn’t know yet, but I’ll notify her this evening—and I’m not subject to constabulary command.”

“Rimes is going to have it out for you too,” Jack warned.

“Police cooperation is useful, but not essential.”

“Lack of cooperation doesn’t concern me. The chances that he’ll get it in his head to arrest you for interfering in a police investigation, however…”

“I’ll warn my solicitor to be available.”

“Phryne—”

“Jack,” she said firmly. “I appreciate your concern. And I know I’ve been a little… out of practice. But I won’t do anything foolish for the sake of it, and I need you to trust me.”

She almost expected him to argue that he _did_ trust her, and was prepared to explain the difference between trusting her—which he no doubt did—and trusting her judgment in this particular case, with the numerous complications it came with. Instead he nodded, and she was filled with a rush of affection for him.

“Alright,” he said.

“Thank you,” she grinned, kissing him. “Now ring the commissioner.”

He did so—the conversation was short, and filled mostly with silences on Jack’s end. He seemed relieved though, and when he hung up the receiver he smiled.

“Rimes _had_ telephoned him. From what I can gather, Commissioner Wilkinson decided that this was the moment to make it perfectly clear how precarious Rimes’s position is and how little patience he has with officers who gained their position through connections, not competence.”

“That’s not going to make Rimes cooperative.”

“Nothing would make Rimes cooperative. With any luck, this has set enough fear into him that he’ll stop trying to block the investigation.”

“Better than you being taken off the case, at the very least.”

“Not that we have any leads.”

“We’ll go over the initial investigation tomorrow. I’m just going to ring my mother, bring her up to date with the investigation and negotiate the cost of my services. Then we can go to the pub for dinner?”

Jack nodded. “I’ll get changed while you do.”

He headed into the bedroom, and Phryne brought a chair towards the table the telephone rested upon and rang Wardlow.

“Fisher residence.”

“Mr. Butler! It is wonderful to hear your voice.”

“Miss Fisher!” her butler exclaimed. “Has your investigation been fruitful?”

“The less said the better, for the moment. Is my mother available?”

“I’ll fetch her immediately.”

Phryne heard the telephone receiver placed on the table, and her mother picking it up a moment later.

“Phryne?”

“Good evening, Mother.”

“Have you arrested Celia’s murderer yet?”

“Not yet.”

“When will you?”

Phryne flinched, and felt her patience snap. “When our investigation is done and we have uncovered the murderer.”

“There’s no need to be curt, Phryne.”

“Clearly there is. I have had to reschedule several commitments to come on this case—”

Margaret sniffed, and it set Phryne’s teeth on edge. “I thought you would enjoy having a week away with that inspector of yours.”

And then it clicked into place.

“Is that what what you think this is meant to be? A romantic getaway? We are _working_ , mother, not playing house.”

“Of course you are, dear. It’s simply that—”

“Not tonight, mother. You’ve hired me to investigate, and I am. On that note, we need to discuss payment.”

“Payment? You cannot be serious.”

“I am.”

“You know that my funds are—”

“I don’t want money, mother,” Phryne said, then took a bracing breath. “I would like you to stay with Aunt Prudence until you arrange your own accommodations.”

“ _Why_?”

Margaret’s voice was incredulous, and Phryne realised that she really did not know.

“Because I have a home and a life that is not centred around catering to your every whim. Because you were in my house less than twelve hours and you expected me to drop everything for your problem.”

“It’s not as if I had planned for my dear friend to be cruelly murdered!” Margaret wailed in objection.

“No, it’s not. And I am very sorry for it, and glad that I can be of use in that regard. But you asked for my help and then interfered instead of trusting me to do my job. You cannot stay with me.”

“Very well then,” Margaret huffed. “I’ll speak with her in the morning.”

Phryne didn’t expect it to actually be that simple, and supposed there was a reasonable chance that Margaret would find another way to argue about it the next time they spoke. But she could already feel the tension in her shoulders abating; she wouldn’t back down. She looked up, and noticed Jack coming out of the bedroom; she smiled as he gestured to ask if she wanted a cup of tea, and then nodded.

In her ear, her mother had gone off on a tangent Phryne wasn’t listening to, but she murmured at the appropriate times and pretended to care as Jack filled the kettle and put it on to boil and prepared the teapot; the kettle was just whistling when Margaret paused, and Phryne remembered one of the things she had meant to ask the day before. It was mostly curiosity, and the chance that it would lead to another person to interview.

“Oh, Mother, I meant to ask: there are quite a few portraits of you at Celia’s place, but also many of another woman. Red hair, hazel eyes. Do you know her by any chance?”

“Oh, that’s Sarah!” Margaret exclaimed. “Sarah Sawyer. I haven’t thought of her in years. Sarah is the one who sold Tullaree to Celia. Well, her brother did. Such a charming girl; Celia took to her quite a lot. The three of us were as thick as thieves. Then I married your father, and Sarah married Aidan, and we sort of drifted apart.”

“Do you know if Sarah still lives in the area?” Phryne asked.

“No, she passed away a few years ago. I think her son still lives in the area though. He might know more. What was his name again? Edmund? Emrys? Something like that.”

“Is he a Sawyer too?”

“No. Sarah’s married name was Halliday, I think.”

Phryne felt a sinking in her gut, her intuition and the evidence coalescing into a deep suspicion.

“Do you mean Eamon Holloway?”


	12. Chapter 12

Saying goodbye to her mother, Phryne hung up the telephone.

“How did Eamon Holloway come up?” Jack asked, pouring out the tea.

“His mother was good friends with Celia and my mother. Her maiden name was Sawyer—I’m presuming daughter or niece of the infamous Captain Sawyer—and a previous owner of Tullaree.”

“Funny he didn’t mention it.”

“It certainly puts his animosity towards Celia in a different light,” said Phryne. “And he knew an awful lot about the treasure without committing to much.”

“You think he’s our killer?”

“I think we definitely need to speak with him,” Phryne said, standing up and reaching for her hat. “I believe you promised me dinner, inspector?”

“I did indeed, Miss Fisher. And perhaps we should drop in on our local historian before we do so.”

Phryne snagged the diary of Captain Sawyer that Eamon had lent her from the table where it lay and placed it in her handbag.

“I do have to return his book,” she smiled. “Shall we walk in?”

Casting an almost mournful glance at his undrunk tea, Jack offered his arm and they left the cottage. Strolling into town, they saw Alfie Barton on his way out of the pub.

“Oi! Copper! We’ve had enough of you ‘round here.”

“Mr. Barton,” said Jack placidly, not stopping to talk. “Have a good evening.”

“I’m glad we’re popular with the locals,” Phryne remarked as they passed him.

“It’s a miracle we haven’t been run out of town.”

Phryne laughed, holding on to Jack’s arm all the tighter. It was strange to realise that even here, in the middle of chasing down a potential murderer, she _enjoyed_ his presence. Had come to crave it, even. How quickly it had become familiar. She wondered, briefly, whether she should have put up more of a fight over this nonsensical arrangement, if only to save herself the shock when they resumed their former levels of intimacy. Slow. Cautious. It wasn’t her usual approach, but they had both agreed it was for the best. This time in Tarwin had been anything but; watching Jack’s profile as they walked, the corners of his mouth twitching into a downturned smile, she found she really could not regret it. Soon enough they were approaching the small cottage where Eamon Holloway lived, and Jack paused to nod towards some bushes.

“Oleander,” he said quietly.

“Our Mr. Holloway is looking more and more suspicious,” Phryne replied, taking the final few steps and rapping firmly on the door.

When there was no answer, Phryne moved to the side to peer through a window; a pile of papers in disarray on a side table, and a drawer had been left open.

“Either someone has broken in or our man has left in a hurry.”

“Alfie Barton was in the pub,” Jack said after a moment. “Our identities probably spread through half the town before we left the police station. Once Holloway realised we were investigating, he would have panicked and fled.”

Glancing around to make sure there were no witnesses, Phryne quickly jimmied open the window and slipped inside; rifling through the papers—all of it to do with the treasure: maps, witness accounts, a copy of Captain Sawyer’s diary—Phryne didn’t hear Jack approach until he was beside her.

“The door was left unlocked, you know,” he said, chastising.

“That desperate?” she asked, ignoring the implication that she could have just walked in.

“Or small town mentality.”

“Either way,” she said, pointing to the paperwork, “look at this. It is _meticulous_. Holloway must have been searching for the treasure for years.”

“And then Celia—who in his mind had ruined his family’s home—reportedly found it.”

“It could be enough to drive a man to murder.”

“The question is, has he found the treasure?”

Phryne touched the teacup sitting amongst the papers—not quite room temperature.

“Not yet. And I don’t think someone who was this close to finding it would leave, murder investigation or not.”

“I’ll ring the police station anyway, have them make inquiries at the train station and such. But I suspect you’re right, Miss Fisher.”

“Aren’t I always, Jack?”

He shook his head. “Let’s go back to the cottage and make some calls.”

———

Back at the cottage, Jack placed some telephone calls—to Tarwin police station and Russell Street—while Phryne made up some sandwiches.

“Since we missed the pub,” she mouthed, and he smiled in gratitude and began to eat.

“So, are we thinking he’s gone back to Tullaree to uncover the treasure before disappearing?” he asked.

“It’s certainly what I would do—”

There was a knock at the door, cutting Phryne off. She stood to answer it, finding Mac and Frankie on the other side.

“I hear your cover was blown,” Mac said, stepping inside.

“The pub?”

“The pub.”

“Well, it hardly matters now. We have a very good idea who the murderer is, and he’s gone to ground.”

“Inconvenient,” said Mac, removing her fedora and suit jacket.

“Very.”

“So what now?”

“Jack’s got the police looking at any way he might have gotten out of town, but we suspect he’s gone back to Tullaree to find the treasure,”said Phryne, motioning them further into the cottage.

“And…”

“And quite frankly that is as far as we’ve gotten,” Phryne said. “We brought all his papers back with us to see if there’s anything of use in them, but I’m not holding my breath.”

Mac took a seat at the dining table, where Holloway’s papers were nearly stacked.

“The more eyes the better?” she asked, grabbing a few off the top of the pile. “Do you have a map of the property?”

Phryne nodded, pulling an unmarked map from the pile and spreading it across the middle of the table.

“Here is Tullaree itself,” she pointed out. “Here is where the Bartons live. The rest of it is reportedly reclaimed swamp. I can’t see any features on here that stand out as particularly good places to bury something, and it all lines up with the map we found at Tullaree.”

Jack and Frankie both came over, and they examined the map and discussed possibilities for several minutes.

“There’s a reason nobody has found the treasure,” Phryne muttered. “Let’s start reading.”

Silence fell around the table as the four of them looked through Holloway’s notes. After awhile, Frankie looked up.

“This is the third mention of a lacebark elm,” she said. “And he’s underlined this one.”

Reaching for her handbag, Phryne pulled out Captain Sawyer’s diary.

“Captain Sawyer mentions one in here, a place his wife liked to walk,” she said, flipping through the pages to find the passage in mind. “It could just be coincidence—”

“They aren’t native to Australia,” Frankie said. “They are better known as Chinese Elm, and they were quite popular… oh, seventy years or so ago? as a decorative feature.”

“My grandmother had one in her garden,” Jack said. “The bark was…” he paused. “Celia knew where it was.”

“What?”

“One of the landscape portraits has a Chinese Elm in it. The bark is very distinctive.”

“And what better place to bury your Chinese treasure than your Chinese tree, right?” Phryne asked.

“And by calling it lacebark, it obscured the connection,” Mac concluded.

“Celia was reading a book on arboriculture,” remembered Phryne. “It was on her bedside table.”

“So she read the book and that was enough for her to believe in the treasure?”

“Or she believed in the treasure all along and this was just a lead.”

“So we go to Tullaree and wander the grounds in search of a particular tree?” Frankie asked.

“No,” said Phryne. “No. We go back to the house. If the treasure was under the tree, Celia probably found it already.”

“You mean the treasure was somewhere in the house all along?”

“I think it’s our best lead,” Phryne said, “and I think it’s where Eamon Holloway would have gone first.”

Jack stood to move towards the telephone. “I’ll call the station—”

“Do, but he’s already had several hours ahead of us. There’s no way you can arrange a large-scale operation in time. There aren’t enough policemen in the area.”

“What do you suggest then, Miss Fisher?”

Phryne smiled. “I think it’s time we set a trap.”

———

Going over Rimes’ head and contacting the inspector based out of Venus Bay, Jack had a force arranged to arrive at dawn. He knew that Phryne was likely right, though, and it wouldn’t be enough.

“What’s the plan?” he asked.

She looked up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and giving him a small smile. He loved her like this, intense and brilliant.

“Still thinking,” said Phryne. She’d sketched out a rough map of the house from memory—the scale was likely wrong, but it was enough to see what they were working with. “This side of the house was completely inaccessible, as was one of the rooms upstairs. That halves the number of places to explore. It’s safe to say that it’s probably not in the conservatory, given how thoroughly we examined it. Most of the rooms have covered furniture—depending on the size, the treasure could be under any one of the sheets.”

“And this room beside Celia’s bedroom was basically being used as storage; finding treasure there would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“I always preferred ‘gold in a pile of shit’,” said Frankie dryly, “but never has it been _quite_ so accurate.”

“Regardless,” said Jack, “it’s right next to Celia’s room, so she’d hear an intruder. The room is packed densely. Getting anything heavy up the stairs might be difficult, but other than that it’s an ideal place to hide the treasure.”

“So if Jack and I head up there… Mac and Frankie, could you start going through the rooms on the ground floor? I’ll lend you my pistol, Mac, so you have protection, but I think it is the safer of the options.”

“Of course,” said Mac.

“Frankie?” asked Phryne. “You can say no.”

“This isn’t quite what I imagined when Mac said you led people into trouble,” she said. “But yes.”

Phryne nodded as if she hadn’t expected anything less. “Of course, we might be completely wrong—if Holloway murdered Celia, surely he searched the house.”

“Maybe he was interrupted?” Jack suggested. “Or he didn’t realise that Celia had found the treasure and was hoping to kill her before she got there? If you think this is wrong—”

“No, I think we all agree it’s our best lead,” she said. “And if it’s beneath the tree still, we’ll be better looking for it with more men and in the daylight.”

“If we leave in ten minutes then?” Jack asked. “It will give me a chance to update the local inspector, and people can make any necessary preparations.”

Everyone agreed and dispersed and Jack placed his call. When it was done, he turned to find that Phryne had changed her outfit—with only Fern’s wardrobe her choices were limited, but she’d found an orange jumper and a rust-coloured skirt that wouldn’t hinder her movements much, and on her head was the familiar black beret that Jack had long ago learnt to associate with trouble.

“You’re a menace,” he said affectionately.

“You knew that when you married me,” she replied, and it took him a second to process what she had said. He laughed loudly.

“I think this plan is completely Phryne Fisher, no Fern in sight.”

“Does that mean I get Inspector Robinson?” she teased, coming to wrap her arms around his neck. “He’s one of my favourite Jacks.”

“Only one?”

“There are so many,” she purred. “My lover Jack, and The Noble Jack Robinson who almost always does the right thing, and Inspector Robinson, and Just Jack who is one of my dearest friends, and of course there’s Jack London, Jack Sprat—”

He kissed her into silence, and when he was done she laughed.

“Took you long enough. For all the Jacks in the world, I find you’ve far eclipsed them all. I was running out of ideas.”

Before he could dwell on the unexpected sentiment, she had twirled out of his arms and was heading for the door.

“Come along, darling. We have a murderer to catch.”

———

The dog came with them, in theory to be a warning of Holloway’s presence but mostly because she climbed through the open car door and refused to move. The sun had set, the last remnants of dusk clinging around the edges of the night, and the company was quiet. When they arrived at Tullaree, torches were given out and they all made their way to the house, foreboding in the dark.

Once inside, Mac and Frankie peeled away to begin searching the nearby rooms, and Jack and Phryne headed towards the stairs. Without electric lighting, the house was eerily dark, but Jack could tell things had been moved since their last visit. He turned to motion to Phryne, and she nodded—she had noticed too. They were even more cautious as they went up the staircase, but the stairs still made horrid creaks and groans that set the hairs at the nape of Jack’s neck on end.

When they reached the door of the storage room, Phryne caught his eye and made a few hand gestures. Jack nodded his agreement, pulling out his gun and aiming it towards the door; Phryne swung it open, keeping out of the way. Empty, at first glance. They both stepped inside, looking for any hint of Holloway’s presence.

Nothing.

“We should split up,” she said quietly. “There’s so much junk in here, we’ll never get through it all if we don’t. First sign of Holloway and we shout, yes?”

“You have your dagger?”

She shifted her skirt up just enough to reveal it in her garter.

“Be careful,” he said, taking the opportunity to brush against her arm. She smoothed his green knit sweater vest.

“You too.”

Taking the left, Jack moved quietly. He had just turned a second corner when he heard Phryne’s voice, calm but loud enough to carry.

“Eamon,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question, Miss… Fisher, was it? I suppose you’re related to the woman Celia left the property to.”

Jack began to sneak back the way he had come, hand dropping to withdraw his gun from the waistband of his trousers and following the sound of the voices, hoping Eamon hadn’t realised he was in the room as well.

“She’s my mother,” Phryne said. “Sarah Sawyer was yours, wasn’t she?”

“Yes. She knew the treasure was real—her father used to tell her stories of his journeys—but she was only seventeen when her brother sold Tullaree to Celia Arden. _He_ didn’t believe in the treasure, after all.”

“But Celia did, didn’t she?” Phryne pressed, just as Jack rounded another corner and they drew into his line of sight; the tiniest nod of her head told Jack she had seen him, but she remained calm. Too calm for a woman with a gun pointed directly at her. “Is that why you killed her?”

“She took my mother’s home, my _family’s_ home, and she treated it like rubbish. And then she had the audacity to think that the treasure was hers just because it was on the property?”

“That’s unfair,” Phryne agreed, keeping her hands in Eamon’s sight; Jack took another few steps forward, raising his gun. “So you poisoned her tea and hit her with the hammer. What I don’t understand is why you would bring her to her bed.”

Jack was quite close now, a few steps at most.

“Because…” Holloway faltered, as if he’d never questioned it. Jack paused, hoping it would end the standoff without having to resort to physical violence. “Because she was a friend of my mother’s, long ago, and I couldn’t leave her like that, slumped over the table.”

“That was very considerate of you,” Phryne said, taking a step forward.

“No!” Holloway shouted. “No! Stay! There!”

She moved back again, raised her hands higher. “Alright. I’m here. What do you want to do? I don’t think you want to kill me, Eamon.”

“I don’t. But now you know, and I can’t let you live.”

“I haven’t done anything to you—”

“I would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for your meddling!” Holloway shouted, waving the gun emphatically. “All I had to do was wait a few days and I could search properly. The cops didn’t care about her.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Holloway,”said Jack, and Holloway spun around.

“You!” he snarled, lunging. “You’re worse than she is.”

Jack almost sidestepped his attack completely, but Holloway managed to clip his shoulder and Jack dropped the gun. Holloway grabbed his arm; unable to reach it, Jack kicked the gun towards Phryne and focused on grappling with Holloway. They struggled.

“I can’t get a shot!” Phryne shouted.

Jack landed a punch that sent Holloway reeling, but before he could right himself enough Holloway was back. The man was fast, if not overly strong, but Jack managed to grab his wrist and spin him, pinning both of Holloway’s arms behind his back. The man kicked back, hard enough Jack’s grip slipped, and he darted away. Weaving around some of the boxes and keeping away from Phryne, he managed to be out the door and onto the landing by the time Jack caught up; leaping forward, Jack caught Holloway around the waist, pushing him off his feet.

The last thing Jack remembered was the feeling as they hit the first stair.

———

Phryne lurched forward as they fell; she could hear screaming, and realised a second later that it was her. The crash of the collapsing wood lasted for far too long, and when she reached the top of the stairs she realised how much of it had fallen into the coat cupboard below—almost the entire mid-section was gone, and there was barely enough left to make it down. The structural integrity of the remnants was likely low. Grabbing the handrail, she made her way down as quickly as possible, never stopping long enough for a step to collapse beneath her weight. It was too dark to see either of them as she passed.

“Mac!” she shouted. “Mac, I need you!”

Thankfully the commotion had already drawn their attention, and by the time Phryne reached the bottom of the staircase both doctors had arrived.

“Phryne, what—”

“It’s Jack!” Phryne said frantically, trying to figure out how to get to the space beneath. “He tackled Holloway, and when they hit the stairs…”

“Here!” said Frankie, voice firm. “Mac, help me move this.”

She had found the small door, hidden behind a hulking piece of covered furniture—some sort of sideboard, Phryne guessed, and wondered why that was what she was focusing on—and Mac moved to help. It screeched against the floor as it moved and Phryne winced, a weight settling in the pit of her stomach.

“Jack?” she called out, hoping that he would—by some miracle—respond, so she could convince herself her was fine.

Silence.

The minute the sideboard was moved enough to reach the door, Phryne slipped past to open it. Locked.

“Jack, I’m just picking the lock! Won’t be more than a minute,” she called out, voice light, ignoring the way her hands trembled as she took out her lockpick.

It took several false starts, but eventually she felt the lock give way… only to realise that the damp had swollen the door shut. Celia had to have an axe or—

“Here, Phryne,” said Mac, holding out a spade—Holloway’s, Phrye presumed. “I’ll see what else I can find.”

“Jack, if you’re near the door and can move, do it. I’m going to have to break it down.”

More silence.

“Jack?”

There was what might have been a moan, too quiet to be certain. There was no way to kick the door in, so Phryne focused her attentions on the rusted hinge—it took half a dozen swings to get the first one off, and the second quickly followed. It provided enough of a gap that Phryne could wedge the spade between the frame and the door, and—with Mac and Frankie’s help when they returned—leverage the door off.

The cupboard was dark, and surprisingly large. Phryne shone her dim torch over the rubble, but could not see Jack or Holloway.

“Damn it,” she muttered, ducking her head and stepping through the doorway. “Jack, if you can hear me I need you to make some noise.”

Still silent. She could feel Mac behind her, Mac’s torch sweeping a second arc of light across the space. The cupboard had been used to store old clothing, it seemed—musty furs and moth-eaten dresses filled the room. She saw his shoe first, the familiar brown Oxford nestled on top of some velvet, and she moved forward.

“Jack!”

She fell to her knees by his head, old triage habits she thought long-forgotten kicking in; he was breathing and despite cuts and abrasions she could not see any major external injuries, but he was also unconscious. She ran her hand over his head, his face, checked the pulse on his throat—steady, and stronger than she would have expected—and continued down. Mac’s hand caught hers, and Phryne looked up.

“I’m the doctor,” she said quietly. “We’ll have to get him to the motorcar, so take Frankie and see if you can find things to make a stretcher. Getting through the swamp in the dark isn’t going to be easy.”

Phryne nodded, and from the corner of her eye saw Holloway; a quick glance told her his neck had been broken in the fall, but she checked for signs of life just in case. Nothing. She didn’t have time to think about it; she hurried out of the coat closet and found Frankie waiting.

“He’s alive. We need a way to get him to the car.”

Finding, of all things, an old pair of skis and grabbing sheets used to cover the furniture, they quickly had a makeshift stretcher; leaving it just outside the door, Frankie went into the cupboard and helped Mac carry him out.

“How is he?” Phryne asked, even though she suspected she knew about as much as Mac did for the moment.

“Alive. He’s still unconscious, but he’s made some noises and he’s showing responses to pain and light,” she said. “Those are good signs.”

Phryne prickled at Mac’s use of her calming doctor voice.

“I know that,” she said sharply.

Mac had bandaged one of the deeper gashes on Jack’s arm with her cravat, and Phryne reached out to touch it; around the edges of the orange material she could see see the blood staining Jack’s white shirt.

“Phryne, darling,” Mac said, breaking Phryne’s concentration. “Frankie and I will take the stretcher. We need you to carry the torches, alright?”

Nodding automatically, she took the second torch from Mac and led the way to the car. It was slow going, but they made it. Laying Jack in the back seat as best they could, Phryne handed the keys to Mac—“I suspect you’re the better driver for this,” she said, knowing that she’d speed the entire way regardless of the roughness of the road—and climbed in to sit on the floor by Jack’s head to hold him steady.

“Don’t you dare, Jack Robinson,” she whispered, so quietly that she was the only one who could hear her words. “Don’t you dare.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are at the end of another casefic. Who knows when the sequel to this one will show up. But to my lovely, loyal readers, you are most excellent. (No, I have no idea whyi'm Bill and Ted-ing right now. I'll blame the lack of sleep.) As always, I love to hear what you think, good and bad. ♥♥♥

Jack was unconscious (or possibly just asleep, but she knew which the odds favoured) when she was allowed in to see him. Head injury (of course) and contusions over the majority of his visible body, a wrapped wrist—sprained or broken, she wasn’t certain; she suspected there were more injuries she couldn’t see, and glanced around the room for some sort of chart. None. She could find a nurse for the information, but suddenly found the idea of walking that far was impossible. She took a seat, wondering who had called in a favour to get Jack a private room in such a small facility.

There were cups of tea and toast that stuck in her throat and people in and out of the room; she sat vigil, too scared to give voice to her thoughts. He was alive, and she was suddenly convinced that it wouldn’t last. That it _could_ not last. If she dared to think him alive, dared to remember how she loved him and how she had never said so—not out of fear, but simply because it had never come up—if she dared to make promises… he could so easily be snatched back again. So she remained silent.

It was nearly morning when he stirred, his voice hoarse from the pain.

“Phryne?”

She jumped, then leant forward, intending to grasp his hand; they were too scraped for it to be comfortable, so she laid a finger on the back of it instead, felt a frisson of electricity between them even at the smallest of touches.

“I hate you,” she choked out, before she could realise what she said.

He stilled, then his body began to shake; she lunged forward, to check for fever or signs of infection, to smooth away his pain, and realised he was laughing.

“My ribs really aren’t up for that, Miss Fisher,” he said, and then she was laughing too.

“That was utterly foolish, Jack,” she said, tucking a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

He grimaced. “I would argue with you, but I find I don’t have the energy.”

She swallowed hard, and turned towards the bedside table to pour him a drink of water.

“Here,” she said, pressing the glass to his lips. “Have a drink, and I’ll speak with a nurse. I hear morphine does wonders.”

He drank obediently, then closed his eyes again. Phryne caressed the back of his hand once more and went to get a nurse; he was asleep by the time they returned. The nurse administered the pain relief, and Phryne retook her seat to wait. He was alive; alive and teasing and he had asked for her. Despite her exhaustion, despite her fears, it was the most marvelous feeling in the world. She fell asleep in the hospital chair, and did not wake until the doctor stopped by to check on Jack at 9 am.

In fact, she did not wake until several minutes _after_ the doctor’s arrival and therefore opened her eyes to see Jack and the doctor mid-argument, Mac standing between them with her arms crossed and attempting to call a truce.

“What is going on?” Phryne asked.

And somehow, Jack found it in himself to _blush_. It would have been adorable, if it wasn’t so disconcerting.

“Ah, Miss Fisher—”

Mac rolled her eyes. “Jack here is under the impression than he can walk out of here through sheer force of will. The doctor disagrees.”

“I’m fine, Phryne. Bruised and scraped, but I am perfectly capable of recuperating in my own bed.”

“Mac, your opinion?”

“He’s not my patient,” Mac pointed out, and Phryne gave her an unamused look. “But in my opinion he may— _may_ —be well enough to be moved to a hospital closer to home in a few days.”

Jack shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“You must have hit your head harder than I thought if you think I’ll believe that,” said Phryne curtly. “Have you _looked_ in a mirror?”

“I wasn’t aware that my physical appearance was such a concern,” he teased.

“Jack…” Phryne warned.

“I hate hospitals,” he said. “The food is dire, you’re subjected to other people traipsing in and out when you’re trying to sleep…”

Just for a second, she saw the glimpse of unease in his eyes.

“Well, you can’t possibly disappear into your house. You live _alone_ , Jack. If the slightest thing went wrong nobody would know for hours. But there might,” she stole a glance at Mac, who rolled her eyes but nodded in acquiesce, “be an alternative.”

It only took a second for the alternative to dawn on him.

“Oh no.”

“Honestly, Jack! I was a nurse in the war—”

“You were an ambulance driver, Miss Fisher, and while I’m sure you did it well, the skills are hardly transferable to the streets of Melbourne.”

“You need to rest, properly.”

“I don’t think there’s a man alive who has gotten rest in your company.”

“Do you really think I would take advantage of an injured man?”

“Of course not. But your furs and feathers would drive him to distraction.”

“I’ll dress so chastely even Aunt Prudence wouldn’t complain.”

“Your perfume—”

“—need not be worn.”

“Your lipstick.”

“I’ll throw it all out, if it pleases you.”

“Your social commitments.”

“My reputation will withstand a few missed garden parties.”

“So you will forego your own pleasures to wait upon a man?” he said, and she realised that he was teasing.

A witty retort was on the tip of her tongue, but instead she moved close to his ear and dropped her voice, nearly forgetting that they were not alone.

“I lost you, Jack,” she whispered, feeling the pain anew at the admission. “I let myself love you and I lost you. My capricious whims put you in that house—”

“You made a judgment call with the information at hand, and you weren’t wrong. I went willingly, Phryne. You can try and shoulder all the blame you like, but this wasn’t on you. And atoning by becoming anything less than you are… Don’t ask me to accept that.”

Phryne settled back in her seat, her eyes watching his hand.

“I want you,” she said quietly.

She sensed rather than saw his smile. “It might be a few weeks before—”

“No, Jack. I want you. _You_. I want… I want us. I want to know that this is more than slow courting, that we didn’t waste the time we have because we were being cautious. I never, ever want to see you hurt and have to think—not that.”

“Phryne—”

His hand rose to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing across it; it took her a moment to realise he was wiping away tears.

———

It was nearly a week before Jack was cleared to return to Melbourne, and he was eager to get there even if it did require abiding by Phryne’s driving.

“It will be smooth enough to rock a baby to sleep,” she assured him the afternoon before they were to leave.

“I have nieces and nephews, Miss Fisher. The sheer force with which they preferred to be rocked is legendary.”

“Even better,” she laughed, heading for the hospital room door with a wave of her fingers. “I’ll be back at dinner.”

She had stayed in Tarwin, extending the rental of the holiday cottage and stopping by the hospital for a few hours each day to bring him food and keep him company; when she was gone he slept—thankfully the horrible headaches did not last beyond the first few days, even if the memories of the day surroundng his fall were still patchy—or read or waited for the next time she swept into his room with food and stories of her day, a breath of fresh air in the stagnancy of a hospital.

“If you want me to stay longer, Jack…” she had offered the first day, her feet already itching to head out the door. “I’m quite happy to.”

“Go,” he replied. “I shudder to think what would happen if we kept you pent up for days on end.”

“I suppose we are fortunate that it’s you injured and not me,” she had said, a little too lightly. Jack had reached out to catch her hand, and when she met his eyes, he gave her a reassuring smile.

“I’ll see you later?”

“Just try to stop me,” she had promised.

And that had been that. She was free to come and go as she pleased, and she pleased often. She mutinously swore under her breath about having to give Sergeant Rimes her statement, laughed brightly about things she had witnessed around town, told him how her mother was—by virtue of inheriting the treasure, found by the police in the storage room—fabulously wealthy once more, and how she’d left the specifics in the care of Phryne’s own trusted accountant. Sometimes she would shuffle him to one side of the bed and climb in beside him and just sit, looking for a moment of peace. Through it all was the knowledge that she loved him with the same intensity she brought to every aspect of her life.

And now they were returning to Melbourne and Wardlow. She had arranged for a spare bed to be brought to one of the ground floor servants’ bedrooms—“As much as I would love to have you with me, I’d likely kick you accidentally and set your recovery back,” she had laughed when she told him, “and there’s no point forcing you to navigate the stairs.”—and Mr. Butler had, by all accounts, stocked up on all of his favourite foods. When Jack pointed out that that was unnecessary, she had shrugged and told him that it was as much for Phryne and Mr. Butler’s pleasure as his. “And you wouldn’t deny me pleasure, would you?” she has asked with an innocence he had not thought her capable of.

Wincing as he pulled his shirt on and fumbled with the buttons, he heard Phryne’s arrival and turned to smile at her.

“A little casual, aren’t we inspector?”

“It’s taking me far longer than I expected,” he confessed. “And the commissioner is insisting I take eight weeks of medical leave, so I suppose I can afford it.”

She rolled her eyes affectionately and picked up his tie from the hospital bed.

“Only you could make that sound like a punishment,” she said, gesturing for him to lower his head.

“The phrase ‘cabin fever’ springs to mind,” he said dryly.

“Don’t worry,” she said, pulling his tie right and giving him a peck on the lips. “I’ll make sure you’re entertained.”

“I think I’ll take my chances with the cabin fever.”

“I had tea with Aunt Prudence arranged, and croquet, and…”

“I’ll take my chances with cabin fever and a pool full of sharks.”

She laughed and took his arm, letting him lean on her just enough as they exited the hospital. Jack blinked at the summer sunlight and shielded his eyes, then gaped at what he saw in the back seat of his motorcar.

“Phryne?”

“Frankie went back for her,” she said. “Damned dog has either been waiting outside the hospital or following me around for days. I couldn’t very well leave her after that.”

“Phryne Fisher, you continually surprise me,” he said, raising the arm she was not holding to draw her in for a kiss. She came eagerly, her mouth uncharacteristically soft, her touch gentle.

“She’ll have to stay outdoors when Dot is around,” she said, pulling back slightly. “And you’re lucky my mother is staying with Aunt P while she sorts out the inheritance, because she _hates_ dogs. And when you move back home you’re taking her with you. And she’s not allowed on the furniture.”

“Phryne?”

“Yes?”

He paused, looking for the words to tell her how much he loved her, and shook his head instead.

“Nothing. You’re just…wonderful.”

Her answering smile was broad. “Let’s get you home, Jack.”

She helped him into the passenger seat—Celia’s dog popping her head over the back to lick his face—and slid behind the wheel. She turned it on, adjusted her sunshades, then looked at him.

“One last thing,” she said, lips twitching. “We are _never_ to tell my mother that her machinations had a hand in this.”

“Never,” he agreed. “We’d never hear the end of it.”

———

They arrived in Melbourne without delay and settled into a routine quite quickly; Jack kept to the separate bedroom even once he could manage the stairs out of a certain reluctance on both their parts to truly explore their deepening relationship when he was staying there out of necessity. It was a loss of independence that seemed to rankle even as he was a perfect guest, and it seemed wrong, somehow, to start with such an imbalance of power. ‘Make do with each other’, he had said once, and she did not intend to force the matter until the playing field was equal.

It did not stop them from talking and teasing and enjoying the other’s presence though, and Phryne found that Jack’s definition of appropriate behaviour was remarkably malleable given the right incentive. The shift caused by simply acknowledging that this was more serious than stepping out, that slow—while technically advisable—ran the risk of costing them everything they wanted, was enough for them both. The exact ramifications of it could be explored later. Together. For now, they had Phryne’s birthday party.

Dressed in a stunning gown of deep purple, Phryne had just chosen a sandwich from Mr. Butler’s selection when the doorbell rang. Knowing that the man had just returned to the kitchen, she decided to answer it herself; it was Mac and Frankie, carrying a tin of something—“Victoria sponge,” Frankie said. “My mother’s recipe.”—and a bottle of whiskey.

“For the birthday girl,” Mac said, kissing Phryne’s cheek. “How’s the invalid?”

“I see,” laughed Phryne, “I invite you into my house, offer my food and my drink, for my birthday, and the first thing you do is ask after Jack.”

“You would have done the same thing,” Mac replied.

“He’s fine. Still sore and still grumbling about being off work—apparently the station will fall down around their ears without Jack propping it up like Atlas—but he’s much better than he was. He’s under the impression I don’t know that he and Mr. Butler let the dog sleep in his bed though, so if you want to put him on the spot….”

“I’ll leave that to you,” Mac said. “Is everyone in the parlour?”

Everyone, in this case, being Jack and his friend Will—Jack hadn’t been in any shape for a larger party, and Dot and Hugh had been unable to make it—and Phryne nodded and led the two doctors through. She made introductions, and thankfully the conversation came easily. Will was a captive audience as Frankie relayed the incidents in Tarwin, even though Phryne knew full well he and Jack had already discussed it at length, asking questions and putting the woman at ease.

“And really,” Frankie finished, “I’m still not _entirely_ sure what happened, but it was better than a meeting of the Adventuresses’ Club.”

Phryne laughed and picked up her drink from the table where it sat, then crossed the room. Jack was seated on the chaise, still easily winded, and Phryne came to sit next to him, tucking her feet beneath her.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, watching the guests talking.

“Pardon?”

“I know you had planned a much larger affair for your birthday.”

“Nonsense, Jack. I planned to spend my birthday with my nearest and dearest. And while the number of nearest is smaller than I expected, the people I wanted most are here and that is all I need. I’ll just have to save that crate of champagne for New Year’s Eve.”

He smiled softly—the visible scrapes were almost healed, at least. “Or for my return home.”

Since their return from Tarwin he had hinted at the day, but never so clearly. And while part of her would be glad when he went, if only for what it would mean for their changing relationship, she would miss his presence. She’d grown used to his comments about the news over breakfast on the days she joined him, and being able to return home from a boring luncheon or a long investigation and know he was there to talk to. Or not; Jack was very good at companionable silences.

“We can worry about that after my birthday,” she said. “And I expect you to stay through at least Christmas.”

His hand came to rest upon her knee, and she smiled.

“Can I get another drink?” Will boomed, always larger than life, drawing Phryne’s attention away from Jack’s touch.

Mac grabbed his empty tumbler. “One of the many magnificent things about Phryne Fisher is that you never need to ask,” she said, pouring him another.

“Actually,” Phryne said, smiling broadly, “I’m afraid this _particular_ glass of whiskey comes at a price.”

“Is it illegal?” Will asked.

“You have spent far too much time with Jack,” Phryne scolded, wrinkling her nose. “But not quite. Or at least not the way you are imagining. I have it on very good authority that you almost got Jack arrested once.”

“Is _that_ how he tells it?” Will laughed. “Because I seem to recall it very differently.”

“Will…” Jack warned, but there was no bite to it. “Have mercy on an injured man?”

“Absolutely not,” Will said, taking his refilled drink from Mac. “So, Jackie and I were sixteen and there was a girl…”

Settling further into her seat, Phryne smiled and cast a look at Jack.

“Told you I’d find out,” she mouthed, and he rolled his eyes and took another sip of whiskey.


End file.
